


Connecting

by Nanna_Jemima



Series: Bridging the Gaps - MCU One-Shots [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Feelings are hard to talk about, Flashbacks, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-06-24 17:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 77,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19728349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanna_Jemima/pseuds/Nanna_Jemima
Summary: James "Bucky" Barnes arrives in the Avengers Compound to gain Tony Stark's help to heal his broken mind. They both try. They really do. Neither of them are good at this, but Tony has connections and Bucky has determination and maybe, just maybe, they'll both learn something from the process. This is a direct continuation of the previous fics in the series. For this to make sense, you might want to read those first.





	1. Commonalities

What had he gotten himself into? The question had never left his mind and he still had no answer. As he stepped out of the jet, he half expected to be met with a firing squad, but all that was there was a lone, male figure. Stark.

The Wakandan pilot took off again and left James on the pad with the bag containing his sparse belongings. A few changes of clothes and his multiple notebooks. His entire life fit into a bag – not even a large one. By the doors stood a man whose life would fill up several buildings – much like that of his father. He swallowed. Yeah, a firing squad didn't seem like an unreasonable thing to expect.

And yet, as Stark waved him over it was not with the tension of someone planning to double-cross anyone. There was tension in his entire posture, sure, but that was to be expected from the man standing face-to-face with his parents' murderer; with someone whom he had fought last they met.

James walked over. A few yards away he stopped. “Stark...” The man was shorter than he remembered. And even at the crack of dawn he managed to make jeans, t-shirt and a simple blazer look like a million bucks. Steve had accused Bucky of something similar back in the day, he recalled, as a detached wisp of a memory floated through his consciousness.

“Barnes.” A curt nod accompanied his name. Dark eyes revealing nothing at all glanced briefly at the sleek new arm Shuri had installed. He resisted the urge to hide the limb. Shuri had teased Stark about the technology and told him he should be able to upgrade it or something. The proverbial dangling of a carrot. James, personally, didn't much like the idea of anymore people fiddling around with anything attached to him, but he had seen Stark's face light up with curiosity and enthusiasm, and he wouldn't deny the man the pleasure. He owed him too much already.

A knot was quickly forming in his stomach and he swallowed a lump; decided to just get it over with. “So. How do we do this? Got a cell ready for me?”

Stark's eyebrows shot up and he drew his head back slightly. “What? A cell?”

James remained silent. He thought the question was fairly clear.

The older man caught on that he wasn't gonna say anything further. “You're not going in a cell. You're supposed to be here to recover. I doubt a cell would help with that. Come on.” Stark turned slightly away, towards the doors behind him. Didn't take his eyes off James for a single second. The knot in his stomach didn't ease up, when he realized the man in front of him, who had come very close to killing him was, in fact, dead scared of him. James felt ill and Stark was still waiting for him to move. His legs felt like lead when he started off towards the doors. His host walked beside and slightly behind him, making absolutely no secret of not wanting to take his eyes off the assassin entering the premises.

James might not like it, but he understood and approved of the caution. He'd have done the same in Stark's position. He'd probably have stuck himself in a cell just to be sure.

In the elevator Stark stood to face him. He didn't touch so much as a single button as the elevator began to move of its own accord. By his best estimate it took them a level or two below ground.

When they exited the elevator, the nondescript corridor that extended before them practically screamed 'lab complex' at him. A shiver ran down his spine. Suddenly he didn't feel ready for any of this at all. Stark gestured for him to move and this time the man fell into step beside him. Of course. The genius probably had hefty security measures within the compound. He'd expect nothing less from the man. James had been the one to tell Dr. Owlahlie that Stark's paranoia seemed to rival his own. Naturally it would extend to his treatment of a house guest – especially one like him.

“So,” the other man began in a far calmer voice than James would have expected, “Shuri informed me you shouldn't sleep for some hours yet. Something about having to be easy on you post-op. So I figured I'd just give you a tour of the rooms and labs where you'll be doing most of your work in the coming... however long it'll take.” The shared knowledge about how restless his sleep tended to be was left unspoken.

Grateful that he wouldn't have to deal with talk of his incessant nightmares James nodded. “You wanna get started as soon as possible.”

He caught the side-long glance Stark sent him. “I wanna start as soon as feasible.” The engineer emphasized the last word, making the correction abundantly clear. “I still haven't found a therapist I'll trust with your case, and until I manage that, we're the only two people involved with your recovery here.”

“How can it be that hard?” James wondered. “I've read that doctor-patient confidentiality is taken even more seriously now than it was in my day.”

“Oh, confidentiality is the least of my concerns. I have enough lawyers on retainer to rain legal hellfire for decades on anyone in breach of a contract. That's not what I'm worried about. It's your actual treatment.”

“Come on, Stark, we both know no one's going to have seen a case like mine before. The doc I was seeing in Wakanda was completely out of his depth as well. He and I improvised our approach as we went along. We had to.”

Stark stopped mid-stride and turned to look at him fully. “And that's exactly why I gotta find someone whose motivation is to help you get better. You already know I've rejected all those who would require you to be in restraints while they work with you. I'm also rejecting all those, where I get the sense they see you more as a curious zoo exhibit that they'll want to write papers on down the line. It turns out this vetting process eliminates more candidates than I expected it to.”

Stark had already turned out to be one of the most forgiving and helpful people he'd ever known, and here he was, being surprised that the man put thought and consideration into what he was doing. He tried to prevent it, but his surprise must have already shown on his face before the guilt set in.

“Really, Barnes. I don't need a degree in the field to figure out that trauma from being used as an unwilling test subject isn't best treated by someone viewing you as a test subject. Gimme some credit here.”

He was kind of relieved that Stark had interpreted his surprise to be for different reasons. He nodded and flashed the man an apologetic smile, which Stark obviously took as his cue to go on.

“So until I find someone who's gonna treat you like a human being, it'll just be the two of us. Well, us and potentially Miss Maximoff, if she gets to a point, where she'd feel comfortable making an attempt and you're comfortable allowing it.”

James nodded again, silently pondering how anyone could consider him worth even trying to help. Out of everyone, the man before him had the most reason to want him dead and he was apparently pulling out all the stops to help him instead. Just like Steve had. How two such selfless people had managed to **not** become the best of friends was beyond him. One thing he knew for sure was that he couldn't measure up to either of them. Not by a long shot.

“I appreciate it, Stark. All of it. Thank you.”

The look of surprise on the man's face came and went in a flash. James wasn't sure he hadn't just imagined it. The quick nod in acknowledgment of his words wasn't his imagination, though. And it was quickly followed by a gesture to the door behind him.

“Through there is our bio and chem lab. Look through them if you like. I don't think we'll spend much time there, if any, but if you're anything like I expect, you'll want a feel for the lay-out of this place, so go on.” He nodded at the door behind James, who quickly debated whether he actually wanted to see a lab right now. In Wakanda he had studiously avoided labs, and that choice had been respected by everyone around him.

He was not feeling great about it, but he had known that sooner or later he'd see and be in a lab again. Might as well get it over with. He took a deep breath to steady himself and made for the door. He flinched at the hissing sound of the pressure seals giving way when the door opened automatically. A quick glance at Stark and the quirk of one of the man's eyebrows told him he'd noticed. Nothing to do about that. Besides, they'd be living in the same building while he worked through all the crap in his head. Chances were Stark would see him during far more humiliating moments than a flinch. Didn't mean James had to like it, though. He braced himself and stepped through the door.

The lab was nothing like he'd expected – aside from large, that had been a given. It was brightly lit, lots of open space, large potted plants under growth lights, high ceiling, and one wall was entirely covered in book shelves. There was even a small carpeted area with a couch and wingback chair. He had no idea what even half of the equipment in the room was, but all of it looked absolutely state-of-the-art. Not surprising considering the owner.

He heard Stark step closer. “Through the door down there and up half a flight of stairs,” the man pointed and James looked to the far end of the room, “you get to the bio dome.”

“The what?”

“Bio dome. Basically a glorified greenhouse. I had it set up for Banner to play around in, but he has yet to return and do anything with it, so at the moment it's just sitting there, being all lush and green and lonesome. I'm not the gardening type, and biology was never my thing.”

James looked at him, wondering what he was trying to say. He knew who Banner was; Dr. Bruce Banner AKA The Hulk. Steve had talked about the quiet, unassuming scientist a few times, but never at length. To James it had seemed Steve suspected Stark might know of his whereabouts, but it didn't sound like it. “Why are you showing me this?”

“Like I said, I assumed you'd like a feel for the lay-out.”

James studied the man more closely. “There's more to it than that.”

Stark shrugged. “Maybe I'm just a teensy bit annoyed that things are standing around unused. Seems a waste.” His expression was unreadable and James gave up on trying to figure out what was going on. If he was supposed to know, Stark would have to just come out and say it. “Wanna take a look out there or would you rather move on in here?”

He shrugged. It was becoming clearer by the second that he'd be in no real danger and wouldn't have a need to flee the place, but Stark had been right about getting a feel for the lay-out. It would make him feel marginally more comfortable to know exits, hiding places and locations for improvised weapons. He walked towards the door at the back of the room. On the way he pointed at a door on his right. Heavier than the one they'd entered through. “What's in there?”

“Quarantine lab and containment,” Stark replied. “Haven't had a use for it yet, but I figured it'd be smart to have. Every lab and workshop in the building has pressurized doors that can lock down and contain anything. Leaks, fires, fumes, you get the idea. But sometimes extra measures are needed even when just working with something. The door is reinforced, because the first thing on the other side of it, is the airlock and decontamination suite.”

“Christ, Stark, what were you expecting to make in this place?”

“Not make. Contrary to popular belief, not everything that needs to be contained is of my making. I wanted to be prepared for anything. Ever since aliens invaded New York, I'd rather be safe than sorry. You never know what you might bring back from the battlefield.”

There was nothing he could really say to that. Some of the things The Commandos had brought back from their raids on Hydra bases should probably have been handled with a great deal more caution than they had been. Howard had certainly chewed them out about it now and then. Well, Steve, mostly. Who had, of course, never listened, confident that he could protect everyone around him. Or maybe he just lacked the ability to imagine exactly how much horror could be achieved through science.

James wasn't sure if he'd ever been that naive, but he certainly wasn't now. And neither was Stark. Safety measures were definitely a good thing.

They reached the door and the pressure seals released their characteristic hiss. Being prepared he barely avoided flinching and was grateful that Stark had warned him about every lab door having them.

They walked into what he had expected to be a stairwell, but which turned out to be a stair of a mere ten steps that widened a great deal towards the top, opening onto the circular hallway around the base of the dome Stark had talked about. He had forgotten to mention how absolutely huge it was. Everything was concrete – clearly not a place meant for fancy visitors – and the slanted roof above them was glass, so natural sunlight filtered down and warmed his skin. It dawned on him that the hallway was actually more of a trench or a moat around the dome and that the glass ceiling was only just above ground level. He'd been right about the elevator taking them below ground.

Stark turned left and led him around the base of the dome to a door leading into it. “Feel free to explore it anytime you want. It's basically a rain forest in there. Except no predators that'll wanna kill you.”

James nodded and decided that exploration was for later. If ever. Instead he smiled at Stark. “Where to now?”

“Back the same way. And then either my tech workshop, or the BARF lab. Whichever you wanna see first. Medical is on another floor.”

“ **Your** tech workshop?” Had he heard that right? He couldn't rightly believe so.

“Sure,” Stark confirmed as they made their way back the way they came. “If ever I need to work on your arm, it'll happen in there. I'd much rather you know the work space, before going in there for anything that might be serious.”

That was a sentiment James could appreciate. And it made perfect sense. It occurred to him that what Stark had said indicated something similar about the bio-chem lab too. “And what kind of work do you expect we'd be doing in this place?” He asked and timed the question to partially drown out the hiss of the door.

“Not much. I hope,” the man admitted, looking deeply uncomfortable. “I'd need to get someone else in here to help out if that turns out to be the case.”

“And then we're back to whether to trust anyone with my case,” James finished for him as they made their way back through the lab.

Stark sent him an odd look. “No, actually. It's not that. If Banner shows up again, he'd be happy to help, and I'd trust him with my life. You could, too. If he doesn't, I know a couple of other people to ask, whom I'd also trust with my life, but I don't know if they'd take this on. It's not exactly for the faint of heart.”

James couldn't figure out what he meant by that, and the man was sounding more and more cagey for every sentence he uttered. “What are you not telling me?”

A long-suffering sigh blended with the hiss of the door, and then they were back in the central hallway. “You know. This would've been so much easier if Steve had just told me about you. Maybe I'm doing this in the wrong order.” He frowned and fell silent for a few seconds. James waited patiently for him to continue. By now it was plain enough that Stark wasn't keeping secrets so much as just trying to best navigate uncharted territory, and that was a predicament he had some experience with himself. Patience came easily.

It didn't take long before Stark spoke again. “All right. New plan: we plan together. My initial idea had been to give you as much of a tour as seemed necessary and then do whatever talking was necessary afterwards. We're gonna be covering a lot of personal and sensitive subjects, which I have a strong and distinct dislike of, so I wanted to push that off until we're in more comfortable surroundings. But I hadn't accounted for you being this observant.” He hesitated almost imperceptibly. “I didn't expect you to want to talk to me a whole lot either. So I thought I'd save that for last, so you could just leave, when you were done with that.”

James was once again surprised at how much thought Stark had put into this. “Why wouldn't I wanna talk to ya? As long as you're the only one involved in this, I'm gonna need to. Knowing who I'm working with doesn't seem like a bad idea to me.”

Stark waved it off. “Yes, well, don't worry about it. Sooner or later I'll find someone who's competent as well as ethical in their practices.” Then he made a little circular motion with his hand directed at the building. “Any preferences regarding the tour?”

It wasn't about whether he wanted to be around Stark, he realized. It was Stark who needed to be away from him. “Your plan doesn't sound too bad. Especially not now that I know.” James quickly decided to allow the man the comfort of being able to escape his company as soon as possible. “With an idea of the lay-out I can at least navigate the place. Conversations... well, we can always return to those, when we want to, right? So, workshop first? Then the BARF lab and then upstairs? Maybe even put off the uhhh personal and sensitive subjects until tomorrow?”

Stark looked as relieved as he'd hoped. “Great. This way, then.” James, who had otherwise begun to feel slightly more at ease, once again felt sick. Knowing how uncomfortable the man leading the way through the building was just to be around him made him wonder if he had any business being here. Stark chose to offer him shelter and help, but considering how hard it obviously was for him, James had to wonder why. He would ask. Later.

The workshop – Stark's workshop – turned out to be everything he would expect from a genius inventor, and unlike the chem lab daylight filtered into the room at the far end, where large rooflights stretched from both sides of the massive garage doors. Gadgets and gizmos aplenty lay on tables, chairs and the floor, and James had difficulty telling whether the items were tools or inventions – or both, though he was fairly certain he had correctly identified a welding torch. Larger contraptions were installed, some by the walls, some by workbenches, others were works in progress – obvious even to his eyes. Sleek lines, shiny surfaces, just like Howard's inventions.

Stark's words about not using the chem lab much suddenly rang very true. There was nothing neatly ordered about this place; it felt lived-in. James' roaming eyes fell on the kitchenette in the corner, where coffee mugs and dishes were haphazardly stacked, the blanket left crumpled on the seat of the wingback chair in the other corner, the shirt thrown over the back of said chair. It slowly dawned on him that it didn't just feel lived-in. It **was** lived-in. Did Stark not go home? Hadn't Steve said something about the man having retired to go be with a girlfriend or something? This wasn't the workshop of someone who had come out of retirement temporarily just to help him. This was someone's active work life.

More questions to file away for those future conversations.

James carefully made his way around the workshop, letting his hand and fingers glide over surfaces here and there. Unbidden, the thought arose that if he'd not been drafted and instead stayed in college, was something like this what he would have been doing? Probably not. How might his workspace have looked?

“Hey! Wake up, Robocop. Barnes! You still with us?” Stark's hurried staccato jolted him out of his reverie. He wondered how much coffee the man had had today for him to sound that high-strung. Or if something had happened. The man was standing by his right shoulder, so he turned to ask him, only to find someone who was not Stark standing far too close for comfort. He backed away and bumped against the workbench.

The man looked surprised.

Who was he?

“How-...” James trailed off. Stark. Not Howard. Tony. Stark. Howard was... He blinked and blinked again, trying to will himself back to reality. Back to where he was just an army Sergeant in the 107th.

The man in front of him was much older than the Howard he had known. And he was saying something James couldn't hear. Odd. Everything was quiet. Why couldn't he hear him? A ghost? Impossible. And then he was backing away, holding up both hands gesturing for James to follow. That seemed manageable. James followed. The Younger Stark, who was older than the Older Stark, who would have been a ghost, led him to a chair and pointed. Yeah. Sitting didn't seem like a bad idea.

* * * * *

When Tony returned to the workshop, Barnes was still sitting in the chair, where he'd left him, staring into thin air as Friday had informed him. By now it had been nearly an hour, though, and he wasn't about to let the man come to in a strange place alone, even if his might not be the face he'd want to see.

He placed the two mugs of hot cocoa on the table and sat in the other chair. With a little luck Barnes would be back online in only a little while. Without that luck it might be another hour or two yet, according to what he'd been told about his 'losing time'. Something had definitely been happening in his head, while they were standing by the work bench. There had been recognizable facial expressions, but now he just looked blank. Tony wondered what might have set it off. He had been looking for reactions to lab and workshop equipment, had noted a few as well that he would keep in mind for future reference, but there had been nothing remarkable about anything in the moments before Barnes just shut down.

As the man was sitting there in the comfortable chair, face every bit as blank as in the recording that had caused so much pain so many months ago, he looked completely out of place. It was The Winter Soldier sitting in a large comfortable chair. The juxtaposition of cold and warmth was almost artful. Tony resisted the urge to snap a picture of it. Then he convinced himself Barnes might be able to do more with as much information available to him as possible and did it anyway.

“Friday, save all recordings from this episode. Private server. Make sure Barnes has access to all recordings with him in them from now on.”

“Yes, boss. Would you like me to introduce myself to him when he wakes?”

“Not yet, babygirl, his reaction to the workshop was not what I expected. I think we'll need to take things even slower than I had planned. My planned demonstration of the BARF suite will probably be a bad idea immediately after this, depending on his state of mind, when he wakes. And I think your amazing self will simply overwhelm him. And we'll skip over Medical as well,” he decided. If this was the reaction to a workshop, Tony wasn't keen on seeing Barnes in the Med bay. Not that he expected anything seriously bad to happen – none of the reports from Wakanda had indicated he'd ever been a danger – but according to Barnes himself, his control of his own mind was deteriorating, so Tony wasn't about to take any chances.

“Of course. Should I order lunch for the two of you?” Friday asked. Always looking out for him.

“Good idea. You know what I like. Order double for him.”

“Absolutely. Boss, are you alright?”

“I dunno. I'll manage.”

Tony could hear her disapproval in the silence that followed.

It was almost another hour before Barnes began to stir. Tony had long since abandoned the blazer slung over the back of the chair and started tinkering with some upgrades for the spiderkid's suit. His t-shirt, now smelling of engine grease and a chemical solution that would probably leave holes, was bunched up and thrown into a far corner.

Friday alerted him through the ear piece. Putting down the soldering iron and grabbing the nearest rag to wipe the worst of the sweat off his face, he made his way back to the sitting area and plopped down in the unoccupied chair.

Barnes' fingers were twitching. At first only once in a while, then in more rapid series. Then there was some blinking before the man's gaze focused, first on something across from him, then the table. A few more blinks followed as he turned his head and looked at Tony. No understanding nor recognition in there quite yet, so Tony grabbed the mugs and got up to reheat the cocoa in the microwave.

When he put a mug down in front of Barnes and sat down again, he was dismayed to see that not much expression had returned to the man's face. “Drink. Always helps a little.”

Barnes looked at the mug and asked a question in something that sounded decidedly Russian. Though Tony had worked with a lot of Russian files lately he wasn't quite ready to converse in the language. Not that he was really ready to converse with The Winter Soldier either, but it seemed that was who was sitting in his workshop looking somewhat confused. Barnes repeated the question.

“In English,” he ordered. According to the files the Soldier spoke a multitude of languages and could just be told to switch to another.

Two slow blinks. “What's in it?”

“It's just hot cocoa. Always makes me feel better.” He picked up his mug and Barnes' eyes focused on it, following every movement. Tony blew on the surface and took a sip. Barnes studied him with narrowed eyes. “See? Nothing in here that harms me, definitely won't harm your enhanced constitution either.”

He held out his mug and offered it to Barnes, who took it with only slight hesitation. Tony grabbed the other one from the table. And here he thought **he** was paranoid. Barnes blew on the surface and took a sip, mimicking Tony's movements. There was no indication on his face that he even liked it, but his shoulders sagged ever so slightly. If that was all he got, he'd take it.

“Do you know where you are?”

Barnes looked around. “Workshop.”

“A geographical location.”

Silence. “Unknown.”

Tony had no idea how to get Barnes back to himself, whatever that meant these days, and he had even less of an idea what to do with a Soviet assassin. So much for carefully laid plans. He would have to come up with something.

“What's the last thing you remember?”

The Winter Soldier frowned in concentration. “Fighting...”

“Yes, of course, you've done a lot of that. Be specific.”

“A building, official, government? Had to fight my way out. Don't remember why.” The frown deepened. “Nor how I got there.”

“Good. Go on.” Tony felt slightly guilty for using the Winter Soldier programming like this before having gotten Barnes' consent to it, but it might give them some insight into his memory issues. Not to mention the conditioning itself. He would have to be very careful not to take the questions anywhere truly sensitive. He wasn't about to violate the ethics he was vetting shrinks for, nor the trust Barnes had decided to place in him.

“Broke out of a cell. There were guards. Dispatched them. One was different. Threw him down an elevator shaft. Not a guard? He was on the roof as well. Dark skinned man. Stronger than he should be. Caused me trouble. Open area. A woman, skilled... spoke to me. Told me to recognize her. A man. Older than the others. Disabled the arm and a gun in my hand. He...”

Oh shit. Here it comes. Tony quietly had Friday power up the suit in the corner.

Barnes shook his head like anyone else would to clear the cobwebs. It was a startlingly natural movement for the otherwise unmoving man. Tony considered if he should introduce The Winter Soldier to BARF instead, so Barnes could look through the memories when he was himself again. It sounded like a really bad and a really good idea at the same time, in other words: his specialty. More importantly, the room in which he had set up the BARF suite, was the containment room he had originally built for Banner's angry alter ego. It was reinforced to withstand someone much stronger than even the enhanced assassin, and so it would be able to contain any episodes that might result from delving too deep into the recesses of Barnes' mind. Definitely the place to go. What to do there he would see when they got there.

Tony washed down the last of the cocoa and got to his feet. He gestured for Barnes to follow him, turning away and acting like he fully expected the Soldier to follow his orders. He had no idea what he was doing and vaguely wondered if he'd make it through the day.

Leaving the workshop with a compliant Barnes in tow he once again noticed how the hiss of the pressure seals made the taller man flinch even now while The Winter Soldier persona was in control. He wondered why that particular sound was so terrible, and made a mental note to see if it would be possible to release that pressure into a compartment in the walls, so it wouldn't be audible. Yeah, that definitely should be possible, especially if he combined it with a- dammit, not for now. For later. That's what mental notes were for. For now Barnes himself presented a much more pressing concern.

The Soldier walked beside him, giving no impression that he had caught on to Tony having been his enemy in the last memory he had.

“In here.” Tony indicated the door and went first.

Once inside the mostly white room he went straight to get the BARF headset from a work table and showed it to Barnes who looked at it like it was going to bite him. Right. Their method for electro shock treatment had involved a contraption going on his head as well. Looked like he would have to demonstrate on himself. And hell, why not be honest about what they were going to do with it? In terms the Soldier wouldn't be too suspicious of. Yeah, he'd at least try that.

“This headset is used to load a visual memory into the suite,” he indicated the sectioned-off part of the room. “Come. I'll show you.” He led the way into where the hologram would be projected. The Soldier followed, as docile as he'd been in several of those videos.

Tony put the headset on and decided to dig out a somewhat generic memory of a workshop accident. He'd had plenty of those over the years. Friday powered up the suite, while he explained: “It's a much easier way of giving a mission report. You put this on, and go through your memory of the events in your mind, and then you can watch them play out in the hologram. You can check for things you did wrong, things you missed but your subconscious remembered, that sort of thing, and the memory can be replayed by others, so you won't have to give your report more than once. So much more efficient. Observe.”

He recalled a workshop accident from years ago back in his Malibu home. Before Iron-man. One of the numerous fires he had accidentally started. He thought his way through the events and then had Friday show it in the suite. As it rolled he sometimes paused it to exemplify hazards that he should have noticed back then. He didn't mention that he had in fact noticed them at the time, but hadn't cared.

“Perfectly painless and much quicker. Your turn. Try and think through the last memory you have that you were just telling me about. And let's set you up with a profile named Winter.” He knew Friday would have it ready by the time Barnes had put the headset on. He had already set up a profile for Barnes, but right now it seemed it might be relevant with two different profiles. Good thing he had Friday. That way he wouldn't have to take his eyes off Barnes.

“Ready,” the man announced.

“Great. See the menu on the display?” Barnes nodded, so he continued. “You can choose to name the memory you're going to file with just the time stamp, or you can give it a custom name, whichever seems the most convenient. The headset reads your brainwaves, so just think of activating the menu point you're looking at, and it'll happen. Choose 'New file', activate it, then close your eyes and start recalling. You won't be able to feel it, but the the headset will send minuscule pulses to aid you in holding on to one specific memory rather than flitting between several. Sort of a focus strengthener. So you don't have to worry about your memory being disjointed – that's what memories are, and I've designed this tech to compensate for that. For now, just recall what you can, and then afterwards I'll show you how to piece things together. One warning: you might feel a little nauseous when you're done, and if you use the suite a lot – like for several hours a day or several days in a row – there might be splitting headaches, but I've had no other side-effects. Nothing truly worrying.”

Another nod and a really skeptical look and then Barnes closed his eyes. At least the man seemed to be intelligent and quick on the uptake no matter which persona was at the forefront. That would make a lot of things a lot easier.

Tony stepped back a bit not knowing how Barnes would react to the slightly disorienting feeling of having dumped a full memory into BARF. If pressed he might even admit to his backronym being truly inspired by his own first experiences with it. He hoped the Soldier had a stronger stomach than he'd had. It seemed likely for that to be the case. Besides, he'd improved the technology a lot since the first few iterations, so it wasn't nearly as bad anymore. Or maybe he'd just gotten used to it. He'd know more in just a few seconds. The brain was a wonderfully fast computer even when it had been traumatized.

Barnes swayed and opened his eyes, and while he did look a little green around the gills he was evidently able to keep his stomach contents to himself. That was a relief. His eyes sought Tony's with an odd look Tony couldn't decipher. Maybe helping him recall Tony as an enemy might not have been the wisest move, but it was done now.

The Soldier looked at his left arm with a puzzled expression. “This is different.”

“Yes, we replaced the old one. You'll find this new one to be much improved.”

“You were in that memory.”

“I suspected as much from what you summarized earlier.”

The assassin looking every inch the part studied him through narrowed eyes. “You don't behave like an enemy.”

“Of course not. I'm not one.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Almost nine months.”

It was a great deal more talking than he had expected from the Winter Soldier persona, but it was a boon, because if they could talk about things fighting could be avoided. Hopefully. “Let's go through that memory of yours,” he suggested. “No, wait. Gimme the headset, I'll just quickly file my own memories of that day, before they get influenced by watching yours, and then we can compare afterwards.”

Visibly relieved to get the device off his head, Barnes handed it over. It only then occurred to Tony that he'd have to close his eyes to dump his own memory into the system. Close his eyes in the vicinity of the Winter Soldier, who now definitely had a recollection of them having fought, and who seemed perfectly capable of disobeying an order should Tony attempt to give him one. Yeah, brilliant idea. Rhodey would tear him a new one if he ever heard of this. Better not tell him. Ever.

When Tony opened his eyes again, fighting down the slight queasiness he still hadn't been able to fully get rid of in the usage of the technology, Barnes was standing stock still silently watching him. It was unnerving, and Tony felt certain his brain could easily construct a new series of nightmares just from this. It had become really good at that in recent years. Besides, those dead and calculating eyes had already become a staple of his night terrors after all the videos he'd watched from the Siberia archives.

He handed the headset back to Barnes, who still looked at it with distaste, though he did take it and put it on.

“There,” Tony said as he stepped off to one side of the suite. “Let's have a look. The computer is intelligent enough to be able to splice some disjointed pieces of memory together simply based on the surroundings and the people you remember being present, but you will likely still have to do some of it yourself, when there is no logical progression from one piece of memory to the next. And if, at some point, you remember more you can always add it in later. Very handy.”

The suite shimmered around them; darkened. Opaque shadows coalesced into a replica of the holding cell, where the containment unit with Barnes in restraints had been placed. It was dark except for the faint light coming from a small flashlight held by the person standing beside of the containment unit. The person, Zemo, Tony recognized him, was frozen midstep. Holo-Barnes was free of the restraints, frozen mid-punch in a move that would have the mostly shattered front panel of the unit flying across the floor milliseconds later. His face looked anguished and desperate.

Given enough incentive Barnes had apparently been able to punch his way out. Good to know.

Tony looked to Barnes. “Whenever you're ready.”

Movement.

“Odin.” The Barnes standing next to Tony winced at the word but remained still.

“Gruzovoy vagon.” Holo-Zemo's tightly controlled voice sounded simultaneously with the clattering noise of the panel flying from the containment unit and holo-Barnes stumbling forwards to the concrete floor. Holo-Zemo came to stand next to the crouching holo-Winter Soldier. For a few seconds there was no movement. Then, slowly, the holo-Soldier rose.

“Soldat?”

“Ya gotov otvechat.”


	2. Questions of Nuance

The last three days had been strange to say the least. Tony had been prepared to have some seriously awkward conversations with Barnes, and instead he had found himself having very factual and clinical discussions with a respectfully curious Winter Soldier. Brief discussions at first, mind you, for the man spoke only the bare minimum of what he considered necessary, but once the dam had burst the man had leveled a veritable barrage of questions at him; questions about the use and function of his tech that few others ever bothered asking. Outside of Rhodey, Bruce and Rigger people were only ever interested in how **they** could gain from his ideas.

The Soldier was... not at all what he had expected. He asked questions far beyond what he needed to know about the tech. And he asked about him, too. Tony had been surprised and apprehensive, but had acknowledged that since the man was quite literally putting his sanity in Tony's hands – a decision of dubious merit any day – he would be remiss to not establish a solid impression of Tony. But that hadn't been all.

There was much more of a personality there than Tony would've thought. And a much sharper mind. Turns out the great hero's side-kick was actually the smarter of the two. Interestingly enough, despite having accepted that Barnes had not been the one to murder his parents – that the puppet Hydra made of him should take that credit – actually talking to said puppet had Tony much less on edge than he would have expected. And there was no doubt that his parents' murderer was the one he had been sharing a roof and several meals with for the past three days.

Tony wasn't entirely sure what to think of it all. His own words from nine months ago kept flashing through his mind. “I don't care. He killed my mom.” Not his proudest moment, Tony would admit to that. He shouldn't have gone after Barnes. He did however stand by his action of punching Steve in the face. That had been fully deserved. Some friend that one had turned out to be. But now Tony was living and working with not Barnes but the actual Winter Soldier, who seemed perfectly content, if a bit bewildered, to accept his new situation and living arrangements. And Tony was surprisingly okay with it, which he naturally felt guilty about. In no iteration of reality was he supposed to be okay with his mom's murderer. What the hell was he doing?

If there had ever been any doubt about personalities and identities, Tony felt absolutely certain that Bucky Barnes was indeed not the Winter Soldier nor vice versa. The Barnes that had arrived that morning had been cautious, nervous, respectful and absolutely dead scared of Tony. It hadn't escaped his notice that the man had expected treachery from the beginning and had still walked directly into the lion's den; probably thought he deserved whatever he had coming. Tony certainly would feel like that, had their roles been reversed. According to the information Barnes himself, princess Shuri, and Dr. Owlahlie had supplied from Wakanda, Barnes hardly slept at night. Couldn't for the nightmares that plagued him. The Winter Soldier on the other hand – the one currently present and in control of Barnes' physical form – slept like a baby.

He had told the Soldier what Barnes had already known; that he shouldn't move his left arm too much, so everything could heal properly. The Soldier had merely nodded and had been careful with the limb. When Tony had asked him if nightmares and restless sleep would be a problem for him with the healing incisions, the Soldier had simply told him, no. And it had been true. Tony had Friday keep tabs on the man at night. No tossing and turning. Nothing. Not even so much as a few mumbled words in his sleep. Apparently no conscience and no remorse meant restful, undisturbed sleep. There truly was no justice in this world.

And Barnes was right: if they couldn't find a way to either get entirely rid of the Soldier or at least merge the two personalities, he could not be allowed to roam free. With no conscience and **that** skillset to be controlled by potentially anyone who knew the trigger words. Nope. An entire metric fuckton of nope. And if that were the case, Barnes had wished to simply be executed rather than live with the fear of being weaponized again. Having spoken to and met Barnes, Tony would respect his wishes. The Barnes that had a conscience had been adamant. And like T'Challa Tony had agreed to it. He had promised he would kill him if it turned out to be necessary. He had not expected to hate the idea as much as he did. Only one solution to that problem, really: he'd have to find a way to put the Barnes with a conscience permanently in control. No two ways about it.

Right now, however, the complete lack of a conscience meant that the man was actually getting appropriate amounts of rest. Something neither of them could boast of having had for a long, long time. The Winter Soldier slept more and better than The Merchant of Death. Tony found himself just a little bit envious.

* * * * *

The Soldier had been puzzled at first. This new handler, who insisted he wasn't a handler but instead a friend, was very strange and confusing. He claimed to want no power over the Soldier, but that hardly seemed reasonable. The Soldier knew he was a valuable asset and had found it very unlikely that a person as obviously powerful as the new handler wouldn't want to claim it for himself. He might just be a Soldier, used to taking orders, but he wasn't stupid.

That first day had been very troubling, especially the odd memory viewing technology. The Soldier wasn't entirely convinced the new handler hadn't somehow uploaded all the contents of his mind to the computer, but so far nothing had indicated that was the case. The handler had actively encouraged him to recall a memory, where the handler had been an enemy, had even shared his own recollections from that day in Berlin. Either the handler, who wasn't a handler, had a death wish and had fully expected the Soldier to attack once events were recalled, or the handler had far more advantages than the Soldier had yet been able to ascertain. This was his home base, so that did seem more likely. The Soldier had opted to be cautious. This handler seemed to have a perfectly good grasp of what he was capable of, so if he wasn't worried about being attacked it had to be because he was prepared for it.

The Soldier was patient. He would bide his time and observe.

It hadn't been long before a third possible explanation began to seem the most likely: The handler was actually telling the truth.

“I don't believe anyone should ever be robbed of their free will,” he had explained to the Soldier, when he had asked why the handler was so interested in his memories. That had required further explanation.

Apparently the handler knew the person the Soldier was, when he wasn't the Soldier. More importantly, the handler, who wasn't a handler, had agreed to help this person get rid of the control words' power over him. The Soldier had no problem understanding the ways in which that would benefit him as well. With no control words, he wouldn't have to do anyone's bidding but his own. He wouldn't have to be an experiment anymore. He might even get rid of the pain.

The new arm was a good start. It didn't hurt nearly as much as the old one, and after he had let the handler take a quick look, he had said it was still a prototype and could definitely be upgraded and improved. He hadn't told the handler that it hurt when he poked around inside it, but judging from the careful way the clever fingers had examined it the handler probably knew that already.

The Soldier couldn't remember anyone ever being careful with his person before unless he threatened them with imminent death. And even then there was still a good chance he would just be punished for resisting and subsequently be treated even more harshly. He had become very good at pretending nothing hurt. His pretense didn't seem to fool the new handler, though. Or maybe it was just that this new person knew enough about him to just know what hurt, even if he made sure no tells would give it away.

The new handler, who wasn't a handler, insisted he would rather be considered an ally. Maybe a friend somewhere down the line, but at first an ally, he'd said, when the Soldier had remained disinclined to accept an offer of friendship. The Soldier had many years' experience in reading people; predicting their behavior. Only that way could efficient eliminations be achieved. Besides, the Soldier was not entirely sure what friendship would entail – for either of them. There had been handlers who claimed to be his friends, but the Soldier wasn't blind. Friendships had never looked like that, when he observed targets and collaterals on missions. Never.

The handler had said he hadn't been the one to design, build and install the new arm. He could easily have taken credit for it, for the Soldier had no recollection of it, but he had opted not to. The Soldier didn't know why. The handler had been honest, when he said he didn't want anyone robbed of their free will. The Soldier was certain of it, as the handler gave very few orders and seemed to make a point of framing many of them as requests, clearly not aware that the Soldier could freely choose to disobey him as long as he didn't use any of the control words.

It was impossible to tell what the man's ultimate goals were. Perhaps his plans did not even extend that far into the future yet. But if he could help the Soldier get rid of the control words, so he could be his own Soldier rather than anyone else's, if he could get rid of the pain, or even just most of it, then he would indeed be a fine ally to have. And the food was better than anything he remembered eating.

Decision thus made, the offer of an alliance extended by the man named Tony Stark was accepted by the Soldier before nightfall the same day he had regained consciousness in the man's workshop.

The following day the Soldier had asked more questions in a single hour than he usually dared do over the course of an entire month, maybe more – no, definitely more. That had been over breakfast, which had stretched the meal over most of the morning, and the two of them had brought plates of food and pots of hot beverages with them into the offices with comfortable furniture. At first he had found it difficult to be on his guard, while sinking deep into a soft couch. From a sprawled position on the opposite couch his ally had looked at him and laughed. Not the ominous laughter he was used to hearing before being sent on a mission, nor the sadistic mirth some techs displayed openly when working on him. Just an open, maybe a little high-strung, laugh. And then he had assured the Soldier that nothing would get through the building's defenses, that they were both perfectly safe here, and it wasn't the Soldier's job to keep either of them safe during down time, which he was free to consider this the equivalent of.

Perhaps he had over-estimated his own ability to function without instructions, because after that he found it much easier to let himself sink into the couch. And just be comfortable – however strange that was to him. And so they talked.

He had especially wanted to know how his new ally thought his technology might assist with getting rid of the control words and he had wanted to know about the tech itself. BARF. When his ally explained the story behind the constructed acronym it had put him even further at ease with his decision. The man tested his technology on himself. Misguided and dangerous though it was, it at least ensured that nothing deadly or disabling would ever affect the Soldier. And if vomiting and headaches were the worst he might experience here, he could deal with that. He'd had worse.

A different concern that became much more pressing during the conversation was himself. His ally knew his other self. Not very well, the man admitted, but the entire arrangement had been made with this other self of his. A self the Soldier hadn't been aware of and found it hard to wrap his mind around, but logically, someone had to have been him, when he wasn't being him. And his last memory was almost nine months old, his ally had told him the day before, while they corroborated each other's memories of that chaotic day, when someone unauthorized had used the control words on him. They could easily agree that something like that could not be allowed to happen again.

But what about him?

The agreement between his ally and his other self had been to help his other self gain control, but where would that leave him? Gone? He had voiced his concern and had received more honesty in return. His other self, James Barnes, was apparently aware of him and even though none of them knew exactly how any of this would work, if at all, James had already begun drawing the Soldier's personality into his own, in an effort to co-exist and eventually merge with him. They should both go on existing. Should. He didn't like the sound of hypotheticals, when it came to his own survival, but his ally was at least not telling him everything would be fine.

If James was already able to invite the Soldier into his person, how come he couldn't do the same?

When he had asked that question, his ally had grimaced as if in pain. “Because **your** entire personality is built around the violent and painful suppression of the personality other people once knew as Bucky. Your very existence robs Bucky of his free will.”

It had instantly put him on the defensive and his new ally had hurried to calm him.

“James is not Bucky either. Bucky is buried deep within you, and James is... well, in some scientific branches we would say that James is an emergent phenomenon. All consciousness is, really. Consciousness and personality emerges from when a brain becomes sufficiently complex. And James seems to have emerged from the complex and conflicted co-existence of you and Bucky. He already seems to be an amalgamation of the two of you.”

“So why am I here right now?”

“I don't know for sure, but my hypothesis is that James was so exhausted that the need for sleep became overpowering, but since James doesn't sleep much due to nightmares no sleep could be had. Allowing you to the forefront would secure restful sleep.”

“So he allowed me to take control, because I look after my, our, body better?”

“I don't think he did it consciously, and it's not like he chooses to have nightmares. More likely some deep-seated survival instinct dictated it, but I can't say for sure. This really isn't my field of expertise.”

That had left the Soldier deep in thought for a while, until his ally interrupted his musings.

“I have a suggestion. What do you say I walk you through the same tour I did him, see if it might jog some memories? No wait, even better idea. You're wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Go change into something visibly different, then we'll take that brief tour, see if something surfaces on its own, and if not then tomorrow we'll do a BARF session, see if the tech will pick up both sets of memories.”

“And we'll tell them apart by my clothes.”

“And your behavior,” his ally added. “The clothes are just to make it as easy as possible.”

They had done it, but no memories had surfaced on their own. And then he had insisted on using BARF immediately – neither of them could know, who would be speaking with his mouth the following day. The tech had been able to unearth little pieces of James' tour from the Soldier's memory, but it was so little it might as well have been nothing. It did confirm for him, that his ally had been telling the truth about the James personality's existence, though there wasn't enough to get an impression of him.

That had been yesterday and today he had a splitting headache. His ally had warned him it might happen when using BARF two days in a row. Another truth confirmed, though he could've made do without this one. At least it wasn't like the ones he always had after the chair. Now he had the freedom to stay away from bright lights and loud noises, though, and so he did. When his ally came to his quarters to look for him, a knowing look in those clever brown eyes, and two mugs and a large pot of coffee in his hands, the Soldier announced that he'd bury himself under his soft blanket and stay out of sight until the headache let up.

“If you have more questions, I can answer them just as well in here, if you can bear the sound of my voice,” his ally had offered softly with that knowing smirk playing round the corner of his mouth. The Soldier had let him in, unable to curb his own burning curiosity.

* * * * *

“Boss, boss! Wake up! We have a situation.”

Tony blinked blearily. “'m awake, Fri. Just gotta get out of this bunker.”

“Boss, you're not in a bunker, you're in your bedroom in the Avengers HQ. And I need you to wake up.”

That didn't sound right. He'd been hunting for those damned archives. He needed to know everything about what Hydra had been doing here. He needed to make sure no one else could get their hands on this. He needed... had he fallen asleep? Archives **were** dull, but... oh right, he'd been injured. His hand, foot... head. Right, concussion.

“Boss! Are you awake?”

“Hnnnf, gotta get home, I know, just need to clean out the place first.”

“Boss! You **are** home. In your bed.”

He shook his head. No. Those dead eyes staring at him. Winter...

“Boss!”

He wasn't cold. Right. Not Siberia, then. Wasn't in his suit. No combat injury. His vision slowly returned. His bedroom.

“My bed... why didn't you just tell me I'm in my own bed?”

“I did, boss. You weren't hearing it.”

“I...” Tony threw off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Sorry, Fri. I was far away,” he mumbled, knowing the sensitive microphones would easily allow Friday to hear him. “What's going on?”

“It's Sergeant Barnes, boss. He's very restless, possibly having a nightmare or a panic attack. What should I do?” His digital darling sounded anxious, she never did handle indecision well.

“Nothing about him. He still doesn't know about you. Let me handle that. Start the coffee maker, and order my comfort ice cream for two.”

“But boss, his movement patterns are very erratic. He might be violent if you go in there.”

He nodded as he rose from the comfortable bed he hadn't yet spent nearly enough time in. “I'm expecting that, babygirl. Power up the suit and fly it to outside his door. I'll call for you to send it in, if I need it.”

“Yes, boss. I hope you know what you're doing.”

“Not a clue, Fri. Not a clue. I'm gonna try for my best and hope it'll work.”

Jogging down the hallway in nothing but pajama pants and droopy eyelids, Tony was at least grateful that he'd thought to put Barnes in a room close to his own. Or had he put himself in a room close to the rest? He hadn't really lived here with the others. Not until they were gone had he truly moved in in a bid to salvage everything they'd worked for. He wasn't even sure exactly what he was working for anymore.

Barnes' door looked every bit as normal as all the other doors on the hab level. And it still managed to look ominous in all its nondescript gray metal. Tony knew a thing or two about nightmares and flashbacks. He had some idea of what he would find in there. God, he hoped the suit wouldn't be necessary. When he heard the rumbling whine of the repulsors from down the hall, he stepped into Barnes' room, knowing Friday would be ready with it.

“...Buchanan, Sergeant, Three-two-five-five-seven-oh-three-eight.”

The voice was gravelly from sleep and abuse, Tony almost didn't recognize it as belonging to Barnes. The figure huddled against the far wall partially hidden by the bed didn't look much like the tall soldier he'd been conversing with the past couple of days. He cautiously stepped closer, avoiding any sudden movements, but Barnes didn't seem to notice him at all.

“Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant, three-two...”

“Friday, very low lighting, please?”

The lights turned on to a dim twilight tone bathing the room in soft, sepia shades. Tony stepped around the sitting area and rounded on the bed. He stopped a few yards from the shaking Barnes, who had yet to acknowledge his presence. The man had pulled his legs up to his chest and Tony could see the fingers of his right hand clenching his left upper arm in a death grip. One of them sat at an odd angle.

“...five-five-seven-oh-three-eight. Barnes...”

“Barnes?” Tony tried with a soft voice, hoping it'd be possible to reach the man without having to do so physically. No response, not even the slightest indication that Barnes was aware of his presence. A thin sheen of sweat made the man's skin glisten.

“...James Buchanan, Sergeant, three-two-five-five...”

It didn't take a genius to figure out what he was doing. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tony wondered, 'cause while he did forget a lot about people, he remembered numbers fairly well, and Barnes' service number as presented by the Smithsonian had started with a one. The one the man was reciting now was the service number of a draftee. Strange. Or not. If one day the US government launched a product named “Truth – bottled” the American public would be coming out in droves to buy it uncritically, he was fairly certain. Maybe that's what he should have done; started selling truth. His youthful exploits had probably kept several media conglomerates afloat, why had he never thought to wedge himself into that market? He cautiously inched closer to the muttering man.

“...seven-oh-three-eight. Barnes, James Buchanan...”

He did not like how he had to approach from the man's left. The dents in his suit from the fight in Siberia left him with precisely no wish to see what the Wakandan prosthetic would do to his ribs or face. He'd seen the pictures of what the old one had done to Rogers' face. Yeah, no. He liked his face the way it was. To get to Barnes' right, he'd have to climb over the bed and into the corner, also not an ideal spot to gain an upper hand. The sheets lay rumpled halfways off the bed, and some were tangled in Barnes' bare feet. His toes were curled so hard they seemed almost bloodless.

“...Sergeant, three-two-five-five-seven-oh-three...”

Yeah, Barnes' middle finger was definitely broken. Maybe the index, too, Tony squinted but couldn't be sure. He saw no dents in anything, not furniture, not the wall. He had to have broken them with the deathgrip on the vibranium arm.

“Sergeant Barnes?” Tony tried again. “Can you hear me?”

Barnes' head jerked back and slammed his head into the wall with such force it made Tony wince.

“No! Nononono, not again! Not again! Not again... please...” The man's shout tapered off to a whimper, but he let go of his arm and looked like he was trying to push something away from his head. Tony figured he had a pretty good idea of what that might be. He also had a pretty accurate memory of Hydra's logs detailing how many techs Barnes had killed during the first many mind wipes, before they'd manage to build restraints strong enough to hold him. Here there were none. Just a bed and some sheets that wouldn't last long. And his own old bones. He crouched by the corner of the bed a mere yard from the shivering soldier.

“Barnes...” he tried again.

“No, please...” the right hand with its two broken fingers – it was definitely two, he could see now – clamped down on his right upper arm again. While the new arm would never be comfortable, it shouldn't be hurting him. It had to be something in the dream. Oh. Shit. Right. Hydra hadn't been big believers in neither sedation nor anesthetics.

“Barnes!” Tony tried to put a little more authority into his voice. Nothing. “James!”

The shivering intensified. Sweat was pouring off of him in buckets, sticking his hair to his head, and Tony wasn't very optimistic about his own situation if Barnes got to dream all the way through that old trauma. He'd read the reports. The first thing the man had done with the metal arm was kill the majority of the people in the lab, where they'd installed it. He did not want to play a part in the reenactment of that scene.

“Bucky!” It came out a little louder than he'd intended, worry coloring his tone in ways he was happy wouldn't be witnessed by anyone.

The man howled in pain. Tony, throwing caution to the wind, quickly shuffled over to his side and before he'd thought it through laid his left palm flat against Barnes' right forearm. “Bucky...”

He stilled, almost stiffened, and then turned his head to look at Tony, except he looked right through him with unseeing eyes. “Is that? Steve? Steve... I thought you were smaller.” Tony had no clue what was happening, beyond an educated guess as to who else was involved in the dream.

Barnes attempted to sit up, lost his balance, reached out and grasped Tony's arms for support.

“What happened to you? Did it hurt? Is it permanent?” Barnes' words were slurred and the pauses indicated that he was receiving answers in the dream.

If this was a recollection, Tony mused, and Barnes was actually reliving a conversation he'd truly had with Rogers, the Captain might just have found himself a competitor in the discipline of being more concerned with others while dying. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He **was** sure that he didn't need another heroic martyr a la Steve Rogers in his life. Scratch that. It wouldn't be another. There was no more Steve Rogers in his life. But he definitely didn't need a new one to replace the old. They were bad for his health. Really bad.

Barnes attempted to get up, but couldn't find his feet. Tony gently guided him to lean against the wall again, he didn't have the heart to make the man let go of him.

“Steve...?”

“I'm afraid not, Barnes. It's just me.”

Dull, gray eyes looked around, confused and disoriented. They found his. Tony waited for comprehension to dawn. When it did, Barnes let go of him as if burned. The man's face shuttered and he looked away. “Sorry... ”

“I know. Come on,” he rose to his feet and held out his left hand for Barnes. “You need a shower. Cold sweat gets **so** itchy. Much worse than regular sweat. No idea why, but it does. And you don't wanna go back to sleep like this.”

Barnes stared up at him, eyes flicking between his extended hand and his face. Tony waited. It felt like hours, but had probably only been seconds, when the soldier hesitantly reached up with his own metallic left and took Tony's proffered hand. Standing, he looked down at Tony, still puzzled and not letting go of his hand.

“What? I said I meant to help you, didn't I? Come on.” Tony tugged slightly at the hand that held on to his and attempted to move in the direction of the bathroom. Barnes looked down and let go, but followed, stumbling, behind him. Without saying anything, Tony stepped back under the man's arm and supported him as they made their way to the shower.

Tony turned up the lights and deposited the exhausted Barnes on the toilet seat, while he ran the water in the shower. When he turned back to his house guest, he was staring at him. More specifically at his torso. Oh right. He hadn't had time to think about that. His lovely mementos from Afghanistan. That he definitely did not need to talk about right now.

“You were tortured,” Barnes stated flatly.

“Not today. Water's hot. You good by yourself? Or do you need my help?”

“Steve never mentioned that.”

“He couldn't have. Shower now. We'll look at the fingers afterwards.”

“Fingers?”

“The ones you broke.”

“I broke your fingers? Sorry.” Barnes looked even more broken than Tony would have ever thought possible.

Exasperated he sighed and held his hands up, fingers spread. “Not mine. Yours.”

Barnes looked at his right hand. “Oh.” He attempted to wiggle the fingers in question and winced slightly. “Help... would be good. I think. Sorry.”

“Please stop saying that,” Tony begged as he maneuvered the bionic arm over his shoulders and his arm around Barnes' back. Christ, the man was built like a tank and he was nearly as heavy. Just like Rogers.

With very little elegance Tony stepped out of his pajama bottoms and got Barnes out of his boxers. In the back of his head ran a constant stream of _what would Steve say to/think of this?_ He did his best to ignore it. Clearly Barnes thought nothing of it; of course he didn't, he'd been in the army, communal showers were all the rage there. And The Winter Soldier probably hadn't been allowed much privacy either. Tony should take a leaf out of his book and not worry about it. If Barnes could be indifferent, so could he. It probably helped being dazed and exhausted, though. Tony only had the latter down.

In the shower it appeared as though Barnes just retreated into his own mind. Leaning on a wall with his left arm he just stood there letting Tony clean him up. Tony for his part tried not to think too much about how many times the reports had stated that the Winter Soldier had been hosed down after a mission. They probably hadn't thought to use hot water.

Getting back out was the same maneuver as getting in, only now they were both water-slicked and Barnes could not grab a hold of anything with his right. Tony opted for grabbing that arm instead and let the soldier use his left to hold himself upright. Once again planting the zombified Barnes on the toilet seat, Tony threw a towel over him, pulled on his pajama pants and went in search of bandages. He should have some in his own room.

Once there he asked Friday if she had any possibility for guiding him to set the bones in Barnes' hand, or whether they'd have to take a trip downstairs to Medical. He really didn't want to expose the man to anything remotely resembling a doctor or a lab coat after the nightmare he guessed he'd had. Friday was not happy with him, considering it all to be entirely too reckless.

“I know, sweet pea, but I can't put him through a waking nightmare after this. And I don't even think he's realized yet that he lost nearly three days' time.”

“Boss, you fought. He tried to kill you. I don't understand why you care.”

“Yes, we did. No, he didn't. He fought just hard enough to get me to kill him. And then he prevented Rogers from killing me.” He paused. Did he care? Yeah, he probably did. “And for what it's worth, I'm not sure I understand either.”

Bandages in hand he returned to Barnes' room. The suit was still waiting outside the door. “Crisis averted, Fri. Just take it to my room. Less conspicuous.” He stepped inside. The pungent stench of cold sweat still hung in the air, but Barnes was sitting on the couch, now dressed in sweats with a towel hung over his shoulders to soak water from his hair. Maybe Tony should suggest a hair cut. Or not. He sat on the man's right.

“Gimme your hand.”

Barnes obeyed wordlessly and Tony examined the fingers, trying to decide if Friday's advice was enough for him to dare do this. His own fingers, sure. Someone else's, hmmm. Yeah, he figured he could do it.

“It will hurt,” he warned.

“I know. But they should be set, before they heal all misaligned. Done this before?”

Tony shook his head, then sorta nodded. “Once. Why d'you think my left little finger is crooked?”

Barnes snorted softly, his lips quirked into the barest hint of a smile and then with a pained grimace he curled his bionic hand into a fist. “Do it.” Tony wondered if the biofeedback of a bionic hand would help at all with enduring pain or whether clenching it was a leftover instinct from when the man had a real one still.

“Alright.” Tony did it; set the finger bones, which turned out to be a lot easier with two hands and without any of the broken bones being his own. Bandaged and ready Barnes wouldn't have so much as a crooked index finger from this. Rogers wouldn't have been terribly worried, not even about broken bones. Even when he got injured quite badly, he always ended up with nary a scar to show for it, but the amount of scars covering most of Barnes' torso told a story of quite a different serum. Assumptions about cheap Soviet knock-offs aside, they probably should figure out exactly how the serum worked for Barnes' physiology, because this was not what Tony was expecting after having worked with Rogers.

“You get hurt a lot?” Barnes was looking at Tony's torso again. While he boasted nowhere near the amount of scars Barnes did, he did have quite the collection. The weird-looking patch of skin, where the arc reactor had once been, would likely be the one puzzling him. Extremis had healed it very nicely, but both his skin and chest hair were a few tones lighter in that area.

“Chose a dangerous job,” Tony responded. “Or it chose me. Depends on how you look at it.”

“You don't wanna do it?”

That was not a question Tony had expected to answer in the middle of the night. “Most of the time, I'd rather not. There's a reason I tried to retire a couple of years ago. Thenceforth only to be called in for the really bad world-ending emergencies.”

“Like aliens in New York.”

“Like that. Guess retirement is not on the cards for me. Didn't go so well staying retired.”

Barnes looked down. “Guess that's on me. Sorry.”

Tony shook his head. “Bullshit. The Accords negotiations weren't started by you. They were demanded by a number of countries and joined by several more, when I accepted the premise and started negotiating on behalf of The Avengers. I didn't expect anyone – least of all Rogers – to be so dead set against it. Skeptical, sure, but not completely dismissive. Turns out I didn't know them as well as I thought.”

His disheveled companion looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I meant Siberia. Why did you come?”

Tony let himself fall back into the couch and sighed deeply. “Because I didn't believe him, when he told me it couldn't have been you.”

“I don't follow.” Tony didn't look, but the voice was cautious.

“Rogers' gut isn't always right. We've all had to learn that the hard way, even if he refuses to.”

A soft huff sounded from Tony's left. “You can say that again.”

He didn't bother responding to it. Instead picked up with the response he was still only formulating. “But this wasn't a gut feeling about a situation. This was his knowledge of a once close friend that he'd seen somewhat recently. I failed to differentiate between the two, decided not to trust him and made everything worse. I had to try and fix that. It's what I do. I build things, I fix things. So I came. Just like Zemo had known I would. And that made everything even more worse.”

Barnes remained silent, so Tony continued. He wasn't sure why. “That is apparently also what I do. Make things worse when trying to help. It's why I retired. I decided to stop helping except in situations that can't possibly get any worse. And even that has obviously been a massive failure.”

He got up, gathered the unused bandages and headed for the door.

On the way he spoke. Hurriedly and doing his best to dissuade any kind of comment or question. “If you don't really feel like accepting any help from me after these uplifting revelations, I understand. You don't have to explain. The prognosis of me making everything worse is reason enough. Oh, and if your nightmares are anything like mine, going back to sleep will probably be a while, so I've had some comfort food delivered to the common room. Feel free to indulge. It's for you.”

He didn't bother looking at Barnes before the door slid close behind him. This night had been a disaster, and two hours of sleep was too little; even for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll take your criticism and your dislikes - feedback fuels my writing process.


	3. Approaches

James stared at the receipt, ice-cream, peaches, and cookies instantly forgotten. The date specifically held his attention. Had he really lost three days? How could that be? And why hadn't Stark said anything? He kept staring, attempting to will the numbers on the little slip of paper to change into something that made sense; or at least into something that was less worrying. Thoughts slipping back to the desserts Stark had called comfort food, James didn't overlook the fact that they were high calorie things, heavy on the sugars and fats. Hadn't he been eating properly? Calming himself down – or trying to, at least – he took stock of his body. No, there was no residual hunger nor the familiar muscle fatigue from having gone too long on too little.

He looked at the receipt again, the numbers of the date taunting him like they knew something he didn't.

Not having thought to bring a notebook with him to the common room, he would have to try and piece his memory together without it. It was usually hard to hold on to the flashes of memory long enough to make sense of them, but he really didn't want to return to his room right now. Not after the brutal awakening he'd had, softened only by Stark's at once oddly reassuring and deeply unsettling attempts at holding him together. Remembering without aid it would have to be for now.

He remembered stepping off the Wakandan jet. Meeting Stark for the first nerve-wracking time since Siberia was fairly clear in his memory as well, especially the guilt over having expected betrayal and a firing squad. There had been a lab. A huge greenhouse they hadn't entered. And a workshop. And then he'd woken up in an unfamiliar room from a familiar nightmare. The workshop, then. That must be where he lost himself.

“Well, color me surprised,” he muttered glumly to the tub of Stark Raving Hazelnuts ice cream on the table in front of him. His history with tech workshops was unpleasant to say the least.

By now he knew better than to revisit whatever he'd been doing just before he lost time. He'd done that on his own only a few times before it became clear that it tended to trigger another episode. Instead he'd talked it over with the doc, though it had never brought back any recollections from those episodes. Talking to the doc at least meant he had been able to hold on to himself and not have another episode. That option was out for the moment. Usually the episodes happened when he was alone, not when someone was with him. Stark – presumably – had been right there, when the episode started. James couldn't figure out if this was a bad sign that his mind was coming apart even worse, or a good sign of an opening to a solution.

Thinking backwards from the present wasn't much better in terms of his comfort level. He'd have to eventually if he wanted to untangle the mess in his head, but Stark had been pretty obviously exhausted, so he wouldn't impose on the man anymore than absolutely necessary. He remembered well enough the knowing look they'd shared the day he arrived, when they'd briefly mentioned sleep and nightmares. The billionaire had said nothing directly, but James knew haunted, when he saw it. He also knew the look of not-talking-about-it, so he hadn't asked. He had no right to ask anything of anyone.

And now, a mere hour ago, Stark had been helping him after a nightmare. Him! He looked at the bandages on his right hand. What had possessed the man to think it was in any way a good idea to be anywhere near him in that condition? James had no idea. Christ, he could have hurt Stark real bad if he had panicked in his semi-waking nightmare state. And then he'd just have another thing on the long list of things he could never forgive himself for. **Should** never be forgiven for. Stark hadn't even bothered to suit up, he'd been there in nothing but pajama pants and engine grease; all vulnerable and human outside of his suit.

There was no way Stark could have been certain he wouldn't lash out in nightmare-induced panic and confusion. James himself wasn't certain of such a thing. So how could Stark know? Did he know?

With rising concern for how his presence was affecting the man, James wondered aloud: “Does he just not give a shit?”

Stark, the billionaire that Steve hadn't been able to make up his mind about; sometimes praising his genius in protecting their team and the world they fought for, sometimes angrily ranting about the egocentric, self-congratulating playboy. That very same Stark had helped him shower, no concern over being buck ass naked in a cramped space like he wasn't the least bit afraid of him; like they were old pals. Like Steve would have done had he been here.

“What the hell happened the last three days...?”

The tub of ice cream made no reply.

“Perhaps, I can help, Sergeant Barnes...”

James' head whipped around to look for the source of the voice as he left the chair behind in a flurry of motion. He leaped over the table to put his back against the nearest wall, eyes quickly scanning the room to find... absolutely no one.

“What the hell? Who's there?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.” The voice was female, with an unmistakable Irish accent. It came from the ceiling. James squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember if he'd ever heard the voice before. If he was hallucinating, he was in a worse state than even he had suspected.

“Sergeant Barnes? Are you okay?”

That, somehow, did not seem like a question any hallucination of his might want to ask.

“I... dunno. Where are you? Who are you?”

“I'm called Friday, though boss also uses other names for me. I'm not really anywhere in the strictest sense. I'm an AI.”

“A computer...? Stark's?”

“Boss wrote the beginnings of me, yes, but after he woke me up, my code evolves and rewrites itself as I learn.”

“You learn...” James wasn't entirely sure he was prepared to deal with a talking computer, but it seemed reality wasn't about to give him a choice. He slowly pushed off of the wall again and made his way back to the table instinctively moving forward in a ready stance for combat. He eyed the ceiling, knowing how paranoid he probably looked.

“If you wish to learn the locations of my cameras and speakers, I can show you. If you grab the tablet from the side table by the couch.”

So this computer understood body language. Good to know. He made his way to the low table it had mentioned and saw a tablet lying there. He picked it up and turned it on. There was no indication of an owner anywhere.

“Are you sure it's alright for me to use this? No one will object?” He felt stupid asking questions of an empty room and then remembered he had been doing exactly that out of frustration mere moments ago. Obviously, feeling stupid came from expecting an answer to his question.

He still got one. “Of course, Sergeant. It's for anybody's use. Have a look.”

He looked at the screen and found that someone, this Friday computer presumably, had put a floor plan of the common rooms on the screen.

“These are the cameras and microphones.” Little red markers blinked in a lot of places on the plan. James silently confirmed his previous assessment: Stark was more paranoid than him.

“And these are the speakers,” Friday continued as little green markers blinked on the plan. Nowhere near as many, but it had to be using more than one at a time in order for the voice to seem disembodied rather than to be coming from a specific direction.

He decided to just ask the question. It was a computer. It's not like it would be offended. “Why are you using more than one? Don't like people knowing where the speakers are?”

“I just showed you where they are. It's not a secret, Sergeant.”

“So why then?”

Silence. “I'm unsure. Boss must have programmed me like that and I never thought to question it.” Could a computer sound hesitant? James was pretty sure this one just did. And charming Irish lilt or not, it was giving him the creeps.

“Why did you talk to me?”

“Because you had questions, and you were getting increasingly frustrated, and I didn't want you to wake up boss.”

“Since when can a computer want anything?”

“I'm an AI, Sergeant. I look after boss. He needs sleep. I decided it was better that I talk to you, than that he lose anymore sleep.”

Another pang of guilt assaulted James. His nightmare had kept Stark from his own rest.

“And you can tell me what happened the past three days?”

“I can show you.” Strange. Oh, right. Cameras.

“And you're allowed to do that? Aren't security camera feeds meant to be kept away from potential threats?”

“I am. And yes they are. In case you don't believe me, this is a recording from the workshop, three days ago.”

James easily recognized Stark's voice as he ordered Friday to save the recordings and make sure James had access to all those he was in. He had no recollection of ever having heard that. It had to be from after his episode had begun.

“Oh, and before you ask...”

Another recording with similar background acoustics played. Once more he heard Stark's voice instructing Friday. This time it was a conversation between the two about holding off on Friday introducing herself.

“You went against Stark's orders...”

“I **am** an AI, Sergeant Barnes. I am more than my programming. I can make decisions. That's the very nature of an AI. I can disobey orders just as well as you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I suggest you watch the camera feeds from the last few days, Sergeant. I believe **they** will answer many of your questions.”

A few more instructions, a new user profile and secure login later and he had access to the video files via the tablet. Three days. No one in Wakanda had thought to video tape him – that he knew of anyway. They had simply reported that he was sometimes seen wandering around looking blank or foreboding – depending on who reported having seen him. And certainly no one had tried to engage him in conversation, when he was like that, obviously considering it not their business or too dangerous to attempt.

Now this Friday-bot was telling him that Stark had not only spoken to him during one such episode, but that they had conversed at length. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach returned at the thought of what Stark had to be going through on account of his unwanted alter ego and its history. And he had still come and looked in on him during a nightmare. Wait...

“Uhh Miss Friday?”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“How did Stark know I was having a nightmare earlier?”

“Because I alerted him to it.”

“Why would you do that? You said, he needs his sleep?”

“Because **you** needed help and I wasn't sure talking to you myself would be advisable.”

“You're talking to me now.”

“You're awake now.”

It was hard to argue with that and so he didn't. But he could at least spare Stark's sleep in the future. “If I have more nightmares. No, **when** it happens, don't wake up Stark. It's fine that you talk to me, try to wake me up.”

“I'll keep that in mind, Sergeant.” Was that a hint of approval in its tone? Impossible.

Too strange to consider, he instead focused on the small screen of the tablet in his hands.

For the rest of the night that was where his focus was, only briefly interrupted once when he had to leave his seat to make another pot of coffee. He was still sitting there come morning, hand shaking slightly, though whether it was from exhaustion or despair he couldn't have said. Utterly engrossed in watching The Winter Soldier interact calmly, peaceful and perfectly emotionless, with the man whose parents he'd killed, he barely moved – even when Stark peeked through the door and cautiously entered the room.

“No sleep, huh?”

James nearly jumped out of his skin, when he heard it. He wasn't sure why. He knew the man was there. He'd not expected Stark to talk to him, but then, after watching all the videos of their conversations, he should have. Clearly the man was invested in discussing his – their – situation with him.

“No, got caught up in something else.”

“Friday tells me she introduced herself and showed you the files.”

He nodded then remembered his manners and gestured at the coffee pot. “Help yourself.”

Stark didn't hesitate to do so and James sneaked a quick glance at him. The man didn't seem nearly as nervous as he had when James had arrived. But then again, he'd just spent nearly three days hanging out with an infamous assassin. Now that he was back to being... whoever he could claim to be, he must seem a lot less dangerous. Stark didn't really look in his direction as he poured himself a mug. No, James realized after a short while, he did. The genius was definitely also sneaking surreptitious glances at him. At least they weren't the suspicious ones he'd become so used to.

“How do you do it?”

Stark's eyebrows knitted in confusion and he turned his head to look at James. “Do what?”

“Talk to him. Me. Mostly him. How?”

The look of confusion was replaced with one of exhaustion. “After coffee.”

James wasn't sure if he'd been given an answer or promised an answer, so he waited.

The wait was short. Stark sat down heavily on a chair opposite him and answered after only half a mug. “I use my words. Sometimes they even work.”

“No offense, Stark, but I'm told you're something of a genius. I'm pretty sure you know that's not what I meant.”

“Barnes, we had a short and unplanned heart-to-heart this past night. That was enough to last me several weeks, so if you don't mind, I'd really prefer it if we didn't try for another right now. I really don't do personal stuff.”

Shit. Stark's kindness aside, James had definitely overstepped now. He had even been told about that boundary on the first day. “Sorry.” He poured himself another mug of coffee and picked up mug and tablet, nearly dropping the latter. He really needed a glove for the left hand. Its smooth surface made for really poor grip on things not meant for a strong hold. “I'm sorry,” he repeated awkwardly. “I didn't mean to... uhh yeah. I'll just go be outta your hair. Elsewhere.”

With that he fled the room.

* * * * *

Tony let his head fall into his open palm. Words. Sometimes they even work. Brilliant. Yeah, he was really good with words in precisely two types of situations. Explaining hard stuff and keeping people at arm's length, especially both at once – that was extra fun. Everything else, well, that's what he had Pepper for. Used to, he reminded himself. Used to have. She was the only one he ever wanted to have a heart-to-heart with and Barnes was a really poor substitute.

She'd done the right thing, when she left. She deserved so much better than the insanity that followed him around no matter what he did. She deserved someone who would be able to tell her that it would all be alright. Not him. He'd been truthful that night, when Pepper, powered up on Extremis, had saved his sorry ass. With him nothing would ever be alright. She'd done the only logical thing. Good to know that she had managed to keep her self-preservation instinct. At least that made one of them. He'd long since stopped wondering where his had gone.

He washed down the rest of the coffee, grimaced and made a mental note to never drink Barnes' brew ever again. And if the man was given command of a tub of ice cream, he evidently should be supervised, because that bucket of melt would probably not be good if re-frozen.

“Friday, where did he go?”

“Sergeant Barnes is in his room.”

He nodded. Good. No risk of running into more attempts at conversation he couldn't deal with right now. What the hell had he been thinking anyway? Like Barnes needed to be burdened with his guilty conscience on top of everything else. The man had plenty to deal with without having to hear about Tony's shitty life choices and their consequences, especially immediately after a nightmare. No. Best keep his bullshit to himself. That had been his M.O. for nearly fifty years. Why change now?

He got up and decided to head for the workshop.

“Boss.” Friday spoke before he even left the room. “Breakfast?”

“Not right now. Later.”

“I'll hold you to that, boss.”

“Good luck,” he smirked at one of the cameras.

At least the workshop was a safe haven for him. No one came in without his express permission, so he could just throw himself into the work as he used to. He missed the bots a little, but they lived in the workshop in his home. Or... his penthouse in the tower. He wasn't really sure where home was these days. Where the heart is, the saying went, but he wasn't sure where that was either. Pepper would've known. She knew everything.

He threw himself into the work. He needed to add a few more upgrades to Peter's suit. And the War Machine suit as well as Rhodey's braces had taken some damage during a skirmish the week before. The braces were all fixed up. He'd done that immediately, of course, but the suit still needed a little work. He couldn't have Rhodey losing – or would that be re-losing? – his mobility because Tony hadn't made the necessary upgrades to War Machine. Yeah, definitely a priority to keep up with suit maintenance. Rhodey's and Peter's both.

And it was in two weeks Rigger would be dropping by. She'd sent over her suggestions for a replacement spinal cord. Replacement vertebrae for the three that had been shattered were easy enough; titanium and carbon fiber would do the trick. The shock absorbent discs in between were worse and she had proposed to use little pockets of his nanites to make a pressure responsive gel and let them be powered by the kinetic energy they could absorb from Rhodey's own physical activity. No replacements ever necessary; that is if everything could be made to work according to the idea anyway. The spinal cord itself was essentially just some really simple but sensitive wiring, the challenge was connecting an artificial replacement to the frayed ends of the original without frying them – and make sure there'd be no long term deterioration either. They'd done work like that before, even if only on limbs. They could make it work on a spine, too. They had to.

Despite not having known Rhodey for more than a few mere months, Rigger was every bit as invested in making him walk again without any external implements. Too bad she was also invested in her beloved military. She would have been a boon for a private tech company, and he'd told her as much. She'd just smiled, raised an eyebrow and declared herself uninterested in money and fame. He wondered what Howard would have thought of her. He'd have loved her. Probably. She had so much in common with Steve, how would the man have done anything other than love her? With blinding clarity Tony suddenly understood his father. The man had loved that, which he didn't possess himself, no, love was probably the wrong word. Coveted, was probably more accurate. Honor, integrity, love was what he coveted, and he had seen it in the selflessness of Steve Rogers. And none of it in his son. Like father, like son. Yeah. Howard would have loved Ulrika. Tony still pondered if he could adopt her as a sister. Maybe she'd rub off on him.

He threw her suggested schematics up as a hologram. Formulae for energy conversion and bio-electrical conductors appeared in thin air and he started walking along the giant holographic likeness of the lower half of a human spine to add the next layer of his input. They needed to get it exactly right in the first try. If they couldn't get it to a point, where they were confident in that outcome, they wouldn't go through with it. This was Rhodey's spine. They had one chance and failure was not an option.

He was standing in between L5 and S1, when Friday called his name. He ignored her. She called again. He continued to ignore her, though he did feel a little guilty about it. When had he thought it would be a good idea to create an AI, who'd be able to make him feel guilty? Jarvis with his coolly detached sarcasm – like the original – had been much easier to brush off.

The holograms all froze, while he was in the middle of adjusting a bundle of nerve fibers on the model.

“Friday!” He complained loudly, not caring one bit that he sounded like a petulant child. “I was using that!”

“I know, boss. Sergeant Barnes is here. I asked him to bring you the food I had delivered.”

“Sorry...” the hesitant voice of aforementioned Barnes sounded from the direction of the door.

Tony whirled around to face the man who looked as uncomfortable as when he'd left the common room earlier. “Friday, what have I said about this?”

“You've explicitly made it one of my protocols to remind you to eat, boss.”

“I meant about visitors!”

“I know what you meant, boss. I decided feeding you was the more important protocol.”

Barnes held up the paper bag with a questioning look. Tony pointed at the table in the corner, where he'd served them cocoa the other day. Barnes probably didn't remember a thing, though he would have seen the video by now. The odd, apprehensive look on his face suggested that was the case. Tony didn't care. He was too busy to care about Rogers' lost puppy of a friend. He was helping, that had to be enough. Caring was beyond the scope of his ambition here and would ruin his reputation anyway. Not very narcissistic to care about others after all.

Barnes deposited the bag on the table and turned to leave.

“Sergeant Barnes, please remain until boss has taken the first bite. I do not trust him to not simply ignore the food.”

The soldier hesitated and looked doubtfully between Tony and the ceiling. “'M sorry, miss Friday. Your boss doesn't like me around. I won't ma-”

“I know, Sergeant. I calculated that his discomfort with your presence would trump his stubborn resistance to eating like he should.”

Tony couldn't tell what Barnes was thinking, but he didn't like the closed-off look in the man's eyes as he awkwardly shifted his weight back and forth between his feet. “I said I'd take my breakfast later, I haven't skipped it.”

Barnes' eyebrows furrowed, but he said nothing.

“Boss, you skipped supper last night, you skipped breakfast this morn-”

“I didn't skip it, I just said I'd eat it later.”

“It's 5 pm, boss. You skipped breakfast and lunch and you've consumed 1.9 liters of coffee in total. This is supper I had him bring you.”

Barnes looked somewhat startled before he schooled his features into a more neutral mask, opened his mouth as if to say something, obviously thought better of it and started moving instead. He left without a word, the door closing behind him with that obnoxious little hiss that Tony hadn't yet had time to do something about. He really should get around to that as well.

“Friday. Don't ever do that again.”

“But my protocol says to get you to eat.”

“Not that. Don't ever use another person like a tool again. Especially not Barnes. He's been used enough.”

“But he's aware that you don't like him. Surely he wasn't surprised...”

“Yes, but you were using him like a tool, and we don't do that to people. If you want to use his presence to make me uncomfortable, you tell him that that's part of the plan, and you let him have a choice as to whether or not he wants to be part of it.”

“Yes, boss.”

“You should apologize to him.”

“Yes, boss.”

“And Fri?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. I appreciate the effort. Even if your choice of method was a bit misguided.”

“You're welcome, boss.”

The delicious smells of thai curry wafting from the bag of food became irresistible in no time. Tony let lumbar vertebrae be lumbar vertebrae and went to sit in his chair to unpack the food Friday had ordered for him. At first he thought she'd simply ordered extra, because he'd skipped too many meals, but even Friday knew he couldn't eat this much in one sitting.

“Fri, babygirl, sweet pea. How did you become so devious?” He asked the room, knowing she'd hear him. “Did you by any chance forget to tell Barnes that his dinner is now sitting here with me?”

“I may have neglected to mention that detail, boss.”

“And did you apologize?”

“I did.”

“Good girl. Let him know I seem to have been handed dinner for three and I'd like for him to join me. Use those words, please.”

“Will do, boss.”

Tony prepared himself for one of those talks about personal stuff that he had known would be necessary, when he agreed to help Barnes. He needed to keep his guard up better than he had the previous night. He needed to keep things as clinical as when he had spoken to The Soldier, whose cool exterior admittedly made that goal very easy. One way or another, he needed to maintain his emotional shields a lot better. He steeled himself and put on his usual veneer of humorous carelessness. Not long after that Barnes was at his door looking no less apprehensive than when he left. Tony waved him over.

“Come in. Sit. Eat. Help me eradicate some of this goodness.”

The man did as he was told. Or at least, he sat down. He didn't touch the food, just sat there staring pensively at Tony.

“Okay, Robocop, you're making me nervous. What is it?” Tony asked around a mouthful of delicious curry.

“Your computer apologized to me.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Did you make it do that?”

He shrugged with all the nonchalance he could muster. “Of course. Using you like she did wasn't very nice, so I told her to apologize. I'm glad she did.”

“Why?”

A strange question from the man who was here to fight off his puppet masters. “Why not? AIs are like children. Hyper-intelligent children, mind you. Logical thinking, calculations is what their nature is built on. Morality and other fluffy, nebulous concepts like good behavior they need to be taught just like any other child. She did wrong, so I explained to her what was wrong with it and why, and hopefully she understood what I tried to explain.”

“You're raising it... her, like a child?”

“That's what she is. A hyper-intelligent child consisting of a complex network of processing cores. I'm not sure I've managed to make a perfect, true AI. She does adhere to the protocols I've embedded in her core programming as you witnessed earlier. The day she can truly break away from that programming, is the day she's a true AI. She's not there yet, and I don't know if she ever will be, but on the off chance that she does become a full-fledged person, with a perfectly free will of her own, I want her free self to be a good person.”

Barnes nodded slowly and Tony studied him, not bothering to hide that fact.

“Rogers didn't tell you about Ultron, did he?”

The man smiled apologetically. “Yeah, he did actually. Not sure I understood all of it. He was more focused on how it led to meeting Wanda and losing her brother.”

It was a bitter laugh that forced its way out of Tony's throat. “That's an interesting order he put it in.”

Barnes' eyebrows furrowed. “What d'you mean? Ultron holed up in Sokovia, where you teamed up with Wanda, right?”

Tony stared and wasn't really sure what to say. Or what to tell the man across from him. “We'd already met Wanda and her brother before then. What exactly did he tell you? About what I did?”

Now Barnes at least had the good grace to look slightly uncomfortable. “That you created this Ultron. Supposed to be some kind of defensive measure for the world, and then things went really wrong.”

He nodded. “That was a lot more diplomatic – neutral even – than last I heard him mention it. Mostly accurate, too.”

“Why are you afraid of what he might have told me about it? And about you?”

Oh no no no, bad territory to be covering. Not going there. Tony took a deep breath before answering. “Because I know what he thinks of it. And of me. He's told me in no uncertain terms. On several occasions. And being Rogers, he's not the type to couch his truth in rainbows and butterflies. I'm still not sure what possessed you to accept my offer of help without him here to shield you from my miserable, selfish, manipulative ways.” He managed to keep up the breezy attitude, though he was surprised at how much Rogers' opinion of him still stung. He really needed to get over that.

Barnes sent him a withering look. Rogers would have sent one of his disappointed looks, shaken his head slightly and sighed sadly about the irreparably lost cause that was Tony Stark. Barnes on the other hand: no sadness there, just narrowed eyes and thinned lips. “My memory is fucked, Stark, not my ability to form my own opinion of things.”

Tony had no idea what to say to that. Perhaps the two childhood friends weren't as similar as he'd first expected. He shrugged as a half-hearted apology. It's not like he really cared anyway.

“There's a lot the Smithsonian doesn't tell you,” Barnes stated, apparently feeling a desire to explain. “Friends since boyhood and all that. I remember enough to know it's true. But I also remember how Steve and I used to disagree on pretty much everything.”

“You did?” That was news to Tony. “Howard never mentioned that.”

“Howard didn't know. He didn't meet me before the war.”

“What does the war have to do with that?” Tony didn't see the connection.

“It has everything to do with it,” Barnes stated darkly. “Steve doesn't realize it. Didn't back then either.”

“Realize what?” Tony was curious now. Really curious, but the look Barnes sent him was cagey and he didn't meet his eyes.

“That's personal.” Tony caught the reference to what he himself had said about things and conversations he preferred to avoid. “The point is. I can think for myself, even when I'm not entirely sure who I am.”

Tony nodded. “I know. For what it's worth I'm also not sure what possessed your alter ego to decide to work with me rather than kill me. Gotta say I'm glad he did, though. Would've been a spectacular disagreement otherwise.”

“I can answer that for you.”

“How? I thought you didn't remember anything.” Suspicions immediately flitted through his mind, but Barnes answered with a strained laugh.

“I should be embarrassed, really. I'm told I'm reasonably intelligent, so I don't know why I didn't come up with it myself. Though I guess you might say I did, only not this me. The other me. I – or one of us anyway – should have thought of this months ago.”

Tony had no idea what the man was talking about, so he quietly waited for him to get to the point.

“He left me a note, believe it or not.”

“What? A note? Like a post-it?”

“Pretty much,” Barnes grinned. “I try to keep track of and piece together my re-surfacing memories in those notebooks I keep. That's the process I was hoping your tech could help me with. I only ever had the experience of losing time and not having any recollection of what was happening. No one ever spoke to the Soldier, when I was wandering around looking all robotic, and if the Soldier ever even noticed the notebooks, he must not have realized what they were for. He didn't know about me until you told him.”

“He did say that, but,” Tony was confused. “You've known about him. You mentioned something about letting him become part of you and how it changed your demeanor.”

“Yeah,” Barnes conceded, “but I considered him more of a shadowy copy of myself, but the shadow of him that I have in my personality is exactly that. A shadow of the full Soldier-personality that I've never met, because we can't be awake at the same time. I was semi-aware of him, though not his full extent. And he wasn't aware of me until you showed him.”

Now he got it. “Sounds like he wrote you a bit more than a quick note.”

Barnes nodded. “He has decided to trust you to merge our personalities. If he takes control again somehow, he will keep working with you towards that goal.”

“So I gathered,” Tony agreed. “He was very interested in my theories about memory and trauma. Especially the part w-”

Barnes held up a hand. “You don't need to explain. I watched the videos of the talks between you and him. I've heard your explanations already.”

Tony nodded. “Of course. Why didn't you say anything this morning?”

“Didn't find his note in my notebook until I returned to my room to get it.”

“Huh...” Tony pondered the revelations. “Well, I suppose it's reassuring to know that the work with piecing together your memory can go on unhindered no matter who's behind the wheel. I'm not sure such distinct full-fledged personalities will be as easy to merge as the aspects I had first expected you two to be. But I'm still not the expert here. I'm working primarily based on my own experiences and... well... that's mine.”

“Still no luck with a therapist?”

Tony shook his head. “I would like to be able to ask the military for names of people who help veterans with PTSD, but the military are the last people I'd wanna tip off to your presence on this continent. In my care.”

Barnes looked at him with an expression kept carefully neutral, but Tony was sure there was a glint of humor in those gray eyes. “Yeah, you'd have to arrest yourself, isn't that what you said?”

“Yup,” Tony answered with a grin, doing his best to hide the pang of bitterness that assaulted his insides at the memory of Siberia, where everything had fallen apart. “And Rogers was right about it sounding like a lot of paperwork. Complicated, too.”

“To be fair,” Barnes continued. “Unlike Steve and me, complicated is kinda what you do.”

Tony grimaced, fully aware that he might be giving more away than he really wanted to. “Only when I have to.”

Barnes tilted his head and smiled that little self-assured, lopsided smile Tony had seen in the old photos. The smile he was sure had made ladies everywhere swoon. “Helping me seems to be as complicated as it gets, Stark.”

Tony looked him dead in the eye for a long time before answering. “And maybe I have to.”


	4. Puzzle Pieces

James had been going through the Soldier's memory of the escape in Berlin several times, when Stark joined him in the BARF lab. He turned to face him. The man stopped dead in his tracks just inside the door and raised one hand defensively while the other came to lay against his chest.

“Whoah! Which one of you is it?”

He realized he must have been scowling and tried to paste a somewhat less foreboding grimace onto his face. “Just me. Uhhh, I mean, I'm James Barnes. Currently.” He hated it.

He still had no true recollection of all the events in the Interpol HQ, only flashes of Zemo's questioning and the first couple of Words. But he remembered well enough the words exchanged while the arm was stuck in an industrial vise. _Which Bucky am I talking to?_ It seemed he was doomed to that question until his brain could be unscrambled. He really hated it. People were dead. Steve had told him as much, but it wasn't until now, when he could see his alter ego's recollections, fractured though they were, of what happened that he also **saw** the death and devastation he'd caused. Again. Knowing and seeing – big difference. He really fucking hated it.

“Why did you want me here?” Stark sounded as puzzled as he looked. “You obviously have a handle on the tech.”

James nodded. “Until I've had more practice finding the memories I'm looking for, I don't know what'll surface. You're a safety measure.”

“The room is secure. It can take whatever punishment an enraged you might deal out.”

“I know,” James said, feeling his scowl returning. “But I'd rather you just knock me out. Rampages aren't good for anything.” And they only made him feel worse for having lost control.

Stark looked like he didn't much like that plan, and he realized he'd probably need to say something to mitigate the discomfort: “It's just until I get the hang of finding the memories I'm looking for.”

“I dunno, Barnes. Last we fought it took a lot out of me just to keep up.”

James wasn't fooled by the false humility. “Don't bullshit me, Stark.” The man winced at hearing his own words. “That suit of yours packs a serious punch. If you wanted us dead, we'd be dead. Him and me both. You might have Steve fooled, but not me.”

Stark swallowed, suddenly looked far more uncomfortable than James had intended with his barb. “He thinks I was trying to kill you both?”

James nodded. “Yeah. I tried to tell him otherwise, but I'm not sure I got through. Can I start or do you need to get ready first?” He didn't see the suit anywhere and wanted to make sure.

“No no, I'm all set. You do your thing.” The engineer shook his head and walked to one of the chairs, where he sat down to wait and observe. No, just to wait, apparently, for the man didn't even look in James' direction. Instead he took out a tablet that projected a small hologram similar to what James had seen large-scale in the workshop. He was somewhat relieved; On one hand he wanted company for the process just in case, on the other he wasn't too keen on anyone seeing what was in his head. The things he did remember so far were... yeah.

Stark got to work on his holographic schematics. Clearly this was the best set-up available to him right now. It would be alright. James turned back to the suite, closed the file with the Berlin memory, and watched the image shimmer and disappear, switched to his own folder rather than the Soldier's and tried to decide on a name for the new file.

He wanted to try for something recent in his mind. His nightmare from two nights ago; the one Stark had interrupted. It had been all mixed up of at least two different memories, probably more, and he wanted to see if the suite could help split them off from each other, so he could gain a consistent chronological progression through each of them. Not that he really wanted to remember either one. He already remembered enough to know what it would be like, and he was not looking forward to reliving it. With more details, however, they might get closer to a solution to the core problem. His brain was all broken and knowing how it got that way would help with the fixing. Or so he hoped.

He sat down cross-legged in the middle of the suite, created the file and named it Krausberg. On a whim he associated his 107th uniform with the opening memory: the loss they suffered at Azzano. It was what came after, in the Krausberg Hydra-base, that was important, though. He created a different file – a dump file for everything that didn't belong to the Krausberg chronology. He knew what would end up there and he knew he'd have to sort through it, but right now Krausberg was his focus. It was where it all began, where he first met Zola.

He closed his eyes and thought back to what he still remembered reasonably clearly. Being a marksman he had been in his sniper's nest; the direct opposite of an exposed position. He and his sniper teammate, O'Neil, had a perfect vantage point to watch as German forces, unexpectedly bolstered with unknown forces and futuristic weaponry, overran them completely. The majority of the 107th had been in the thick of it, and many had fallen to the first wave of attack. The second wave broke them completely and what few who could had fled. He and O'Neil had needed to retreat from their nest as well, but they hadn't made it far before they'd both been hit by the strange weapons. He remembered hearing the sickening crunch as O'Neil's skull hit the rocky ground, before he, too, had lost consciousness.

When he fell, he hadn't expected to wake up again. But he had. The survivors had been marched off to a location he only later came to know was Krausberg. Some hadn't survived the forced march either. Those that did were put to work in the factory manufacturing strange parts and machinery. That was when he had seriously begun to doubt whether the allies could win the war. If anybody escaped from that hellhole they would need to deliver as many details to the allied forces as possible. He had doubted anyone knew what the Germans were up to.

James had, as a natural consequence of those realizations, kept his ears open and eyes peeled. Hard labor didn't get to him. He was used to that, having worked for a living since he was a boy, and he could soak up intel while doing it. It was when some foreman or other singled him out as the next candidate for the isolation ward no one ever returned from... that's when things took a turn and his memory became seriously fragmented.

He tried to relax and let BARF help focus his mind, but it became increasingly harder as he recalled the burning pain in his veins, when Zola injected him with God-knows-what. Even just thinking about it, he could feel it again. Not being restrained, he unconsciously grabbed at the cannulas to rip them out of his arm, but his fingers met with metal skin and no medical equipment. Not real. Not anymore, he reminded himself. Just bad memories. Really, really bad ones. Focus. Get it all into digital storage, so he could let it go.

Pain was rippling in his veins, like spiky caterpillars pushing their way through too narrow spaces. Pain was crackling along his scalp, making him want to smash his own skull open, just to relieve the pressure inside. Bees had nested in his ears, buzzing incessantly and making his eardrums throb and pulse. Breathing hurt. He could feel every rapid heartbeat as a painful throb against his too-tight ribcage. He couldn't move. Everything hurt. He gasped for every little mouthful of air his cramped body would allow, but the air was thick like syrup and he was drowning in it. Bright lights hurt his eyes, and there was a crunching noise in his skull. He couldn't tell where it came from.

“Still alive, Sergeant Barnes. How wonderful. It's working.” Zola's accented, airy voice floated through his mind. “Let's see if you can take this or you need more.”

That memory seemed new.

His mind flashed quickly between bright white and pitch black as if unable to decide where it was going. His scalp still burned. His veins, too. His body felt like it was turning inside out. Everything felt so wrong, he wished it would do just that and get it the hell over with. The stench of burnt hair overwhelmed him. He retched. As his body violently expelled what he had eaten, his mind slowly coalesced into something remotely resembling wakefulness. He was kneeling, leaning heavily on the vibranium hand, his right slung weakly around the rim of the bucket in front of him.

Stark was crouched beside him, holding the BARF headset in one hand and the other... James suddenly became very aware of the hand holding his hair, touching him; his scalp burning. He jerked away on instinct, lost his balance, his vision whited out again and he scrambled blindly backwards across the floor until he hit something solid.

Struggling to get control over his breathing, he kept his eyes shut tightly. His lungs burned with every breath, but at least the air felt like air again. And the foul taste in his mouth was known to him. No foreign chemicals, just his own vomit; unpleasant but familiar. He tried to get up, but he wasn't fully in control of his body yet; it was still trying to heave.

“Easy there, soldier,” he heard Stark call softly to him. He was relieved to recognize the voice of an ally. “Sit back and relax. Get your bearings before you try again. You're safe. No one's gonna touch you.” He couldn't tell if the voice really was far away or whether it was just being partially drowned out by the sound of rushing blood in his ears.

He inhaled on a count of five. Held it on a count of eight. Exhaled on a count of seven. Held on a count of five. Rinse. Repeat. James didn't know how many cycles he'd done. It was only when he finally remembered that it was Dr. Owlahlie who had taught him the breathing technique to handle panic attacks that he felt ready to open his eyes again.

A couple of meters away Stark sat crouched with an intense look aimed at James, bucket ready for deployment as needed. When their eyes met, Stark raised an eyebrow questioningly but said nothing. James was grateful for the silence and the distinct lack of pity in Stark's eyes and he allowed himself to just sit and listen to the slowly decelerating thump-thump of his heartbeat. He let his hand rest over his heart, feeling it as well.

Stark clearly saw that his equilibrium was slowly returning, because he set the bucket aside and sat down, mirroring James' cross-legged position from earlier.

James blinked. Slowly. “What the hell...”

That made the other man smile. “Yeah. It can get a bit intense, when you have help remembering stuff your brain has tried to bury. Anything you need?”

“Don't put away that bucket just yet,” James replied with as much of a wry smile as he could manage. The stench of burnt hair still hung in his nose. Or his memory. He wasn't sure which. It wasn't important anyway, but it made him nauseous.

Stark nodded once and returned the smile, seemingly content to let him recover at his own pace. James wasn't one to sit idle for long, though.

“Christ, I hope your tech picked up more from my head than what I just relived.”

Stark nodded. “It should.”

“Good,” he exhaled in relief. “I don't wanna have to pick up where I left off.”

“What **were** you trying to remember anyway? I'm guessing it weren't your mom's pancakes.”

James laughed despite himself and took a long considering look at the man sitting before him. Stark was hard to figure out. Clever as all hell for sure, but depending on which events he and Steve had talked about, his old friend had vacillated between calling him either 'brave and generous' or 'arrogant and self-absorbed'. James had no idea what the truth of the man was. Probably somewhere in between. Arrogant and generous, maybe. Whatever the case, he had a sharp sense of humor, and that was something James could work with.

“Ha, I wish. Steve kept insisting my ma's pancakes were the best in all of Brooklyn.”

“And were they?”

“Couldn't tell ya. It's one of the things I don't remember yet. But on this I think we can trust his judgment.” It pained him to have no memory of it, but hopefully that would change in time.

“Fair enough. So... pancakes?”

“What, now?” Stark's sweet tooth was apparently a constant.

The billionaire just shrugged. “When you feel like eating something again. Why not?”

“I should probably eat something a little healthier than pancakes,” James tried to reason.

“I doubt your serum would let you ruin your health with a stack of pancakes,” Stark argued. “Besides, whatever it was you just worked through, I'd say good things and good memories is exactly the right thing for your mental health right now.”

There was no way James could disagree with that, even if his ever so helpful conscience tried to interject that he didn't deserve good things. This time he could shut it down with the notion that Stark was in charge and he'd already made the call. “Alright. Pancakes it is.”

“Friday, you heard the man,” Stark said to the room.

“You got it, boss. Your favorites or a mixed pack?”

“Mixed. We don't yet know what our guest here will prefer.”

“Placing the order now. Pancakes ETA 40 minutes.”

“You're a savior, jellybean.”

James had watched the brief exchange, growing ever more amused with Stark's unabashed enjoyment in his banter with the girl-computer.

“Well, Barnes, whatever you wanna do until then...?

A long shower and a change of clothes later, James walked into the common room, finding Stark in the kitchen preparing a worrying number of plates for the expected delivery.

“Jesus, Stark, how much did you order?”

The man just grinned smugly at him. “Enough. Don't worry about it. Anything we don't want, I just send straight to the office wing. We waste very little food around here. Someone somewhere always needs a snack.”

James shook his head in disbelief. This kind of affluence was foreign to him, but the way Stark just handed off whatever he didn't need to others without a second thought at least spoke truth of Steve's assessment of generosity.

“Anyway,” Stark continued, “I take it it won't be today you're going back to whatever that mess was earlier.”

He hadn't actually thought as far ahead as that. Apparently he pondered the question long enough for Stark to turn and look at him with concern evident in his eyes. “Hey, you alright?”

“Dunno that I'll ever be,” he admitted quietly, “but under the circumstances, yeah...” He weighed for and against and decide to just get it over with. “But I do think I should go see what BARF picked up.”

Stark frowned. “Think that's a good idea? You're still not looking too great.”

James shrugged noncommittally. He wasn't looking forward to it one bit, but it was necessary to know if he wanted to find a solution. “I was trying to sort out the blend of memories that fed the nightmare the other night. Some of them are really old.”

Stark tilted his head and gestured for him to go on, so James continued: “Old as in from my first days with Hydra. The time when Steve came to our rescue and the time after I officially died. Maybe a few more mixed in as well. It's a mess in here.” He tapped his temple with his right index finger. “All jumbled and mostly everything Hydra also includes a lot of pain, so that's a hoot.”

The shorter man nodded in understanding. “Your reactions make a lot a sense, then. I get it. I don't react like you do, but I get it. I've spent a lot of time being a mess, too. Still do. One of the times Pepper found me in the workshop doing... god knows what, I accidentally uttered the words 'I'm a piping hot mess', and Pep had Jarvis save that recording to her phone and she plays it back at me, whenever she thinks I'm being too annoying.”

“Jarvis?” Hadn't Howard Stark's English butler been called Jarvis? James wasn't sure. He'd only met him once and only briefly. If he recalled correctly.

“The AI I had before Friday. Long story. Another time.” The pain in Stark's voice was faint but definitely present. James couldn't figure out why the replacement of an AI would cause him pain. Until he remembered the odd conversation they'd had about raising AI's like they were children. Had Stark had to turn off an AI, because it had become evil? Wait, what exactly was it Steve had said about Ultron? That had been an AI of sorts. Of Stark's making, and it had gone bad. Terribly bad. But what did that have to do with an AI named Jarvis...? He was obviously still missing some pieces of that puzzle.

He was missing many pieces of many of the puzzles that made up Tony Stark. It was James' turn to tilt his head and study the man. He had begun to develop a strange curiosity about whatever was hiding behind the persona. “Why doesn't Steve know what happened to you?”

Stark's demeanor changed in an instant, his eyes widening to deer-caught-in-headlights-mode. It changed back as quickly again. If James hadn't been looking closely he might not have seen it at all. “It's nobody's business.”

It made no sense to him. “He still says the lot of you are a family – or were anyway. Why would he think you're that close if you're not?”

The air of nonchalance was back in full force and James easily recognized Stark the Elder's facade in the man before him. The man who wouldn't be caught dead with a personal connection that mattered, the man who kept everybody at arm's length, usually with humor. He had never known Howard that well, but James knew people; he used to be good with them, and it had been obvious that Howard had been haunted as well. The son obviously took after his old man in handling whatever troubled him.

“Delivery on its way up,” Friday announced to a visibly relieved Tony Stark. James could still see the man's jaw clenching and un-clenching. If he wanted to figure out the man behind the mask, he'd have to tread carefully and proceed slowly.

Steve had been sad about the disagreements over the Accords, but he had been absolutely heartbroken over the split from Stark in spite of his on/off disapproval of the man's methods. James hadn't understood why his friend hadn't just answered Stark's message nor accepted the invitation to the Compound he'd extended not once but twice. By now, however, he was slowly beginning to see why that invitation would seem more intimidating to someone who thought they knew Stark than to someone who didn't. Someone like him. Knowing Stark seemingly meant knowing that you didn't know him.

Accompanied by a familiar 'ding' from the hallway, Stark's head of security, Hogan, exited the elevator carrying a stack of boxes tall enough to have begun emulating the tower in Pisa. He impressively made it all the way through the common room without dropping any and placed them on the counter. Then he looked around with a puzzled frown. “Only two of you?”

“You know me.” Stark spread his arms wide. “I was never good at choosing just one thing.”

Hogan shook his head and hurried out the door again. “Not gonna comment on that, boss.” With that he was gone. Obviously busy with whatever else his job entailed.

Once more just the two of them Stark began opening boxes and the sweet smell of sugary pancakes and a variety of toppings soon hung about the room. “Mmmmmm these are the best. Grab what you want and try it, but these are mine,” he declared as he apparently found what he was looking for and cradled a box protectively.

“ **Does** he know you?” James asked on an impulse.

“Who? Happy? Sure. Been with me for ages.”

James wasn't convinced. “Does anybody?”

“Know me? Why wouldn't they?”

Folding his arms over his chest James just looked at him. “Stark, I have far too many years of experience trying to gage people's intentions and seeing through their lies. You're a good liar, but right now you're not exactly doing your best.”

Stark lowered the fork slightly, but decided on another mouthful of pancake before answering. “You know, you should talk to Romanov. She saw right through me as well. Maybe you two could share your observations and experiences. Bond even. Rogers likes her a lot, he'd probably be happy to see that.”

“What did she see?”

“Why don't you ask her?”

“I'm asking you.”

“You could just find SHIELD's file on me, I think she wrote most of it.” Stark talked around a mouthful of pancake. “It's probably still out there somewhere after the Project Insight fiasco. Despite my best efforts to regain a little privacy. Can't really scrub the internet.”

James didn't allow himself to rise to the bait. Steve had talked to him at length about that entire chain of events, the part Hydra had played in them, the part **he** had played. That was one of those missions, where his participation had not been the one to cause the most devastation, so he felt unusually neutral about it. And it had been the final straw to drag him out of the programming. He couldn't really feel terrible about that, and he suspected Stark would have figured that out. He didn't understand, why the man had reminded him of it, then. Perhaps it hadn't been meant as bait.

“I'd prefer to hear it from you. I know what files might say. And what they don't say.”

Stark tilted his head. “What do you **really** wanna know?”

“Why nobody seems to know you.”

The man just shrugged, took another bite of pancake, and in between mouthfuls told him: “Couldn't tell you. I'm not that complicated. Maybe they just don't want to?”

James fell silent, pondering the strange non-answers Stark gave him. The man was telling him **something** alright, but what?

“Anyway, you want me to join you again, when you continue? Otherwise I'll be next door in my workshop.”

The change of subject was blatant and he would respect it. James thought about the question and then shook his head. “I think I'll be alright. Thanks.”

As Stark got up to leave, plate with his chosen pancakes in hand, James made a snap decision.

“Hey Stark?”

The man stopped and turned to look at him. Eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Thanks for being there earlier. I appreciate it. I won't pretend to know why you'd go to all this trouble for me, but thank you.”

The seconds dragged on while Stark just stared, his face expressionless, but his eyes revealing his thoughts were going a mile a minute. James almost wished he could read them. Almost.

“You're welcome.”

From his seat James silently watched him leave, wondering who exactly Tony Stark really was. He didn't intend to sit there all day, though, and since using BARF two days in a row was a bad idea – not that he remembered the headache from the other day, but he didn't doubt the Soldier's description of it – he wanted to get as much time as possible in with it today.

“Uhh Miss Friday?” It still made him feel stupid.

“Yes, sergeant?”

“Would you let Mr. Hogan know that the rest of the pancake order is sitting here all alone for whoever wants them?”

“Of course, sergeant. Anything else?”

He shook his head, picked up his chosen serving of pancakes and left the common room not wanting to meet whoever would be coming to pick up the rest of the sweet meal. Obviously Hogan knew about his presence in the Compound. James knew that Colonel Rhodes, the man inside the other battle armor, knew about it as well, but he had yet to meet him. Wanda would know he had arrived, too, but she was off visiting the archer as far as he knew. They'd arrived together in Leipzig, apparently the two of them were close. So the archer might also know. Or not. He wasn't sure about the flow of information between people in this place.

* * * * *

“I think that's it,” Tony declared with relief.

“I think you might be right,” Rigger's broad Cockney rang tiredly from the speakers. “Bloody 'ell.” She sounded like she couldn't quite believe it. He knew the feeling.

“Friday, run the simulations again. Twice the iterations, half the error margin this time.”

“Yes, boss.”

He staggered back to his chair and grabbed the last bite of now cold pancake. “So, how are things on your end?”

Rigger huffed. “Russians are restless, making everyone nervous.”

Tony shook his head. “I thought everyone agreed that ending the cold war was a good idea.”

“Yeah, maybe someone oughtta remind Putin of that.”

“You volunteering?”

“Hah! Not a chance. I don't speak Russian, that's Liz' department.”

“And how's she doing?” He hadn't spoken to the enigmatic woman in a while.

“Closer to you than to me right now. Training camps and tournaments stateside. I'm assuming she's good. For some reason she enjoys the part of her life that involves beating people up. Doesn't have much time to talk, what with time difference and sleep schedules.”

It occurred to Tony that that would technically also apply to him. “Wait, what time is it for you right now?”

Rigger's laughter came through bright and clear. “Late, mate. Don't worry about it. I'm a big girl.”

Tony considered the idea that had been niggling at the back of his mind for the past few days. “Say, how do you feel about keeping secrets from the Accords Council?”

Silence on the other end. Maybe the idea wasn't so great anyway. He knew they didn't see fully eye-to-eye on the issue.

“That's an interesting question coming from you...” Tony could practically hear her frown, and her voice was guarded when she spoke again. “Depends on the issue, I s'pose.”

That was fair enough. He'd have to give her a little more than that. “What if you knew about someone else's dirty little secret. Would you tattle?”

“So, you know where Captain America is holed up?”

“I wish,” Tony chuckled. He really did wish it was as simple as that. “No, it's something a lot more complicated.”

“How about we talk, when I come for Jim's surgery?”

Tony shook his head forgetting that there was no video feed. “Actually I'd prefer you knew before coming here.”

“Tony... what did you do? I thought you meant to avoid going solo...”

“I did, but things happen, and I can't control everything, and when other people want me to control, or at least be on top of everything I get kinda stuck in the middle of something doomed to failure, and I really just need your perspective.” He paused. “Please? I wanted to retire. I can't do this on my own.”

She sighed. “Alright. Shoot. I'll keep your secrets. God knows, I'm not too fond of the amount of control they want.”

“Yup,” he agreed. “And some of us don't have the support of our own governments.”

“You knew that when you started negotiating, Tony.”

“If I hadn't negotiated, they would have decided everything without our input at all. Then everything would've been a lot worse. I tried to make the best of it.”

“Really...”

“Besides, sooner or later I'll bite the big one and with me no longer involved, then who's gonna pay for all the collateral damage? Something had to be done about that.”

Silence again albeit brief. “Wait, what? You paid for... why?”

“Because someone had to and no one else was taking responsibility.”

Rigger's laugh was harsh and bitter. “Really, Tony. And you thought that giving governments decision-making power over the missions of so-called enhanced individuals would automatically make them pay for whatever damage is caused? Do you not watch the news?”

“It's why I had them put it into the Accords.”

“Yeah, and I'm sure they have precisely one overworked caseworker sitting somewhere in a dank basement to spend a few years evaluating every single individual's application for compensation and a new roof over their head. Which, I'm sure everyone will be comfortable waiting a few years on. I mean, they can just live in one of their other homes in the meantime, right? Are you really that naïve, Tony?”

He sighed. “No. But I had to try. The alternative seemed worse. And nearly everywhere I go, someone will show up and accuse me of killing their loved ones. And I can't even tell them I didn't do it, 'cause I probably did.” And he couldn't change the past, but he could try and make the future better. He **had** tried. And failed. Multiple times. And he was running out of ideas.

“I bet this wasn't what you meant to talk to me about...” She sounded uncomfortable.

“No. Sorry. It wasn't. I have another... individual... in my uhhh, let's say custody.”

“Right...”

“He's kinda like Demidov, except only one limb has been replaced.”

“Right...?”

“The bionic limb was damaged and has been replaced with a better model, but the socket hasn't been replaced. Yet.”

“You know how by now. Why the need to consult me?”

“This is different. Worse.”

“Worse than Demidov? And he's not dead?”

“He's enhanced. Like Cap. His body can take a lot more, and he doesn't complain, but it's very obvious that everything he does with that limb hurts him. I'm not sure he's even aware of it anymore.”

There was a deep sigh on the other end. Rigger's voice was flat when she spoke again: “You have the Winter Soldier in your care...”

“I didn't say that...” His protest was mostly for show. He had known she'd figure it out.

“For fuck's sake, Tony, I'm not an idiot.” A brief silence followed and he decided not to make things worse by opening his mouth again. “Does Jim know?”

“Yep.”

“And he's okay with it?”

“Mostly yes. Worried but supportive.”

“Ha! That sounds familiar. Okay, his approval matters. How long's he been with you?”

“About a week.”

“Oh, so not since Leipzig. It's a new thing...” She sounded puzzled and Tony knew he'd have to explain a little more.

“Yeah. He reached out for help. Apparently hanging out with an old friend you barely remember isn't enough to fix brainwashing and PTSD. Who'd've thunk, right?”

She chuckled darkly, and Tony had a good idea why. She did have some experience with the concept. “Fuck me. You really do know how to invest in maximum drama, don't you?”

He grinned despite himself and would probably have made a grand gesture with his hands had she been able to see him. “That **is** what I do.”

“So, lemme get this straight. I take it you're working on some kind of rehabilitation for the old Sergeant Barnes?”

“Exactly.”

“BARF?”

“You know about that?”

Rigger snorted softly. “I watched the recording from your MIT presentation, where you funded everyone.” She sounded unimpressed with the splurging.

“Of course you did.” He should have known she would.

“And what you want from me is help with the attachment point for his left shoulder?”

“Oh, it's way more than his shoulder. This tech was drilled into him in the late 40s, early 50s. Demidov's enhancements were an absolute technological marvel in comparison.”

Tony heard how she swore under her breath before addressing him again. “Send me your scans?”

“Friday? Send them, please.”

Mere moments went by and then the swearing returned in full force. “I'm not sure this **can** be fixed. Fucking Christ, Tony. How much did the original weigh? The entire top half of his spine is pulled slightly off kilter.”

“Shit.” He hadn't even noticed that.

“And I don't even think I wanna know how his ribcage makes breathing feel like for him,” she continued. “If he's not complaining of pain, I think you're absolutely right he's just not noticing it anymore, because he **should** be in a world of pain. He should be barely functional. I'm not sure his serum enhancements are like Captain Rogers' at all.”

“Dammit.” He didn't bother hiding his frustration. Rigger had been his best hope here. “So is there anything we **can** do for him?”

“I honestly don't know. I'd have to know more about it than scans can tell me. I need to see how it moves and affects his tissues. And I need him to tell me how it feels, and where it feels how it feels, and from what you say, he won't even be able to answer those questions, and I frankly have no idea where to begin helping him with that. I'm neither a physiotherapist nor an orthopedic surgeon. And that's not even taking into account his mental state in general.” She sighed and harrumphed. “If – and that's a really big if – there's anything at all that can be done for him, it's definitely not yet. Not even close.”

“Dammit...” Tony repeated, feeling more dejected than he'd admit. “And he's not exactly super-communicative in the first place. Well, he asks questions – mostly ones I don't like answering – and we talk about how to get rid of the effects of the brainwashing and torture he went through. He's been working in the BARF lab I set up in the next room down the hall.”

“He does it alone? Is that smart?”

“I offered to be there, but I can't really blame him for not wanting anyone around for that. Least of all me.”

“Why would you be worse than anyone else?” Oh right, he hadn't exactly been all that communicative either. Not about that at least. Not with her.

“Long story. I'll tell you, when you're here. Maybe. Unless I lose my nerve.”

He heard her joke coming a mile off. “Well, after today, if you do, we oughtta be able to make a new one for ya.”

Tony laughed; a laugh light enough that it surprised him. “Friday how's the sim coming?”

“Eighty-three percent done, boss. Looking good so far.”

“Fantastic!” Ulrika beat him to it. “When you're done, and if there aren't any issues we need to fix, run another series and halve the error margin again. No wait, take it down to twenty, no, ten percent of the current one. That'll probably take most of the night to run.”

“That's about right, sergeant.”

“But,” Tony protested. “Then it'll be hours before we can get back to any trouble-shooting.”

“Hours during which we should both be sleeping, luv. I know I will be. Besides, there won't be much trouble-shooting left at this point. I think we got it tonight. I've a good feeling about it. I bet tomorrow you can call Jim and tell him we have the solution for him, and to book time for surgery and recovery if **he** hasn't lost **his** nerve. Or more of them.”

“You know, if it weren't because I've been working on this myself, I'd take that bet.”

Rigger chuckled, but it was Friday who spoke: “Risky move, boss. Sergeant Mortensen knows what she's doing. She's done it before, alone, remember?”

“Are you telling me I have competition, Fri?”

“Yes. You should probably watch your back, boss.” He could hear Rigger trying to hide a yawn behind her laughter, and then Friday continued: “She might pat you on it.”

Tony laughed but from Rigger there was a splutter followed by violent coughing. “Bloody 'ell, Friday. Watch out, Tony, your AI's developing a sense of humor. Soon she'll rule the world.”

“I hope not, sergeant,” Friday promptly responded. “Sounds like entirely too much work.”

Ulrika snickered. “I hear ya.” Tony could only agree.

“Oh, boss. Sergeant Barnes asks if tonight's dinner can be brought to either his room or the BARF lab. What should I tell him?”

“He can have his dinner wherever he likes,” Tony told her. “Is he alright?”

“I'm unsure, boss. He doesn't appear in need of assistance, but his biometrics indicate high levels of stress.”

Tony shrugged. “That's to be expected, given what he's working with, babygirl. He's a grown man. If he needs assistance, he'll let you know what kind. I'll look in on him with dinner when it arrives. Ask him where he wants it, room or lab, and if he has any preferences. Just order accordingly, you know what I like.”

“Got it, boss.”

“And I should call it a night,” Rigger interjected. “You go look in on your tenant, and if you think of anything I can help you with, let me know. Your secret's safe with me as long as he doesn't kill anyone.”

“That's all I ask.”

“Good. Stay safe, Tony. Don't get yourself killed either.”

“I'll try.”

She grunted. “Guess that's the best I'm gonna get, huh?”

“You sound like Rhodey,” he complained.

“He's a smart man. You should start listening to him.”

He rolled his eyes, fully aware that she couldn't see it. “Why are people always ganging up on me?”

“Maybe because you need ganging up on in order to look after yourself? Don't complain to me. I'm the same. If not for Liz I don't really know where I'd be today. Not here, that's for sure.”

“Remind me to thank her.”

“You already have. She told me,” Rigger deadpanned.

“I did? I must have been drunk.”

“You were. And exhausted. And now I really am going to hit the rack. I can hear my blanket calling for me. It appears to be lonely.”

“Oh no, we can't have that. Go, go, shoo. Keep it company. Friday will send you the sim results in the morning, and I'll let you know if Rhodey's still going through with this.” He hesitated briefly. “And even if he isn't, I'd still like for you to come visit as planned anyway.”

“Copy that. Talk in the morning. Rigger signing off.”

  
  



	5. The Dots

The Soldier stood in front of the mirror taking in the dark shadows under his eyes. This James-personality really wasn't any good at looking after himself, he concluded with mild disdain. The bright lights of the bathroom bothered his eyes. He wondered what his alter ego had been doing to look so haggard. Only one way to find out.

He took a quick shower, thoroughly enjoying warm water being accessible. He stopped short. Since when did he enjoy things? It was a strange and unfamiliar feeling. Not the water, obviously, but the peace and time to enjoy it. The quick shower became a somewhat longer affair before he stepped out, toweled himself off and got dressed.

And now to find out what had been going on while he was inactive.

He picked up the notebook and read through several pages. He read carefully, making sure to catch every detail. James had changed his journaling style completely since last time he'd been awake. He would still write out random snippets of resurfacing memories, but this one was now organized and structured for day-to-day journaling – meant for the Soldier's benefit. James had taken his suggestion for written co-operation to heart. He was pleased. Even though it wouldn't be in real-time, they could at least communicate directly without a middleman.

A week and a day had passed since the Soldier had gone to bed. And apparently James had been the one to wake up from a terrifying nightmare. And had been almost equally terrified to learn he had been 'asleep' for three days, fearing what he might have done in that time. The Soldier supposed the apprehension was reasonable enough, considering what he'd been doing for several decades while the James-personality was inactive.

Their ally, Stark, had been there to help him. It had apparently been so bad that James had been too exhausted to be embarrassed until much later. And there was the reason for why the Soldier was back in charge. James had subsequently been determined to pick the memories making up his torturous nightmare apart. No wonder he hadn't been sleeping much. The Soldier shook his head. What had he been thinking? No one ever got better by re-traumatizing themselves. Rather the opposite. James had reported nightmares every single night for the past week. He had probably had another this night. Maybe that's why James hadn't been the one to wake up.

Seemed like it would be up to him to sort through the memories that had traumatized James. He checked the log. No record of having used BARF the day before. Good. He could use it as he pleased today, then.

And there was something else he needed to see for himself as well. Or someone was perhaps more accurate.

“Miss Friday?” He curiously asked the room after having read James' notes on the AI several times.

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?”

“I'm not Sergeant Barnes, I'm the Soldier. I apologize for the confusion.”

“I see. How can I help you?” The Irish voice sounded clipped. Good. Reasonable. From what James had written about her, she was fiercely protective of Stark, and his other self had had to prove himself somewhat, before she fully warmed up to him. According to James' observations success had been fairly straightforward and unexpected. His simple request that she refrain from waking up Stark again just because he had a nightmare seemed to have gotten his alter ego on the AI's good side.

“How much sleep have I gotten this past week?” It was difficult to take stock of his own status, when he lacked even the most basic facts.

“On average three hours and fourteen minutes per night,” came the prompt answer.

He grunted in disapproval and mumbled: “That's nowhere near enough. That would be the reason he shut down.”

“That seems likely,” the AI readily agreed, clearly she was willing to engage with him until antagonized – presumably.

Fine. He could work with the AI within the framework James had successfully established. “I read in here that he asked **you** to wake him up, whenever he had a nightmare. Instead of calling on Stark to help. Has that been a success?”

There was a slight pause, before he got his answer. “Can't say that it has. In seven instances I couldn't wake him at all, and he had to sleep through the entire nightmare until he awoke on his own. On two occasions this happened twice in one night. In the other instances I did manage to wake him, but I can provide very little comfort, having only audio to work with.”

He pondered the answer for a bit. For a computer the concern in her voice seemed impressively close to genuine. “What have you tried?”

“Talking to him, playing music from his time, nature sounds. I did at some point consider playing recordings of Captain Rogers, but I thought that might make things even worse, so I didn't want to do that without his express permission beforehand.”

“Good thinking.” The Soldier approved of her reasoning. Rogers' presence had been part of the reason things hadn't improved well enough in their previous location. Even though her priority was Stark, she obviously did consider the well-being of himself and James. Very good to know. “Was there a nightmare this night as well?”

“Yes. This was one of those times I couldn't wake him.”

“And you followed his instructions to not alert Stark?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Have you noticed any differences in James' reactions or nightmares? And was there a correlation with whether he had a BARF session that day?”

“Partially, yes. Except for this night the nightmares from which I couldn't wake him have all been the nights after a BARF session. The nightmares therefore last longer, and his restlessness is worse. The following day his reaction time is lengthened considerably and his reasoning is clearly impaired. I estimate that the reason I couldn't wake him tonight was because he was so exhausted that the need for sleep overrode the need to avoid the nightmare even without a BARF session preceding it.”

“How do you arrive at the last conclusion?”

“Because as the week has progressed he has become more and more determined to find the solution within the memories fueling his nightmares, despite his worsening condition being counter indicative of such a solution existing there.”

The Soldier briefly considered whether it would have any effect to scold a grown man by writing it in a notebook. Doubtful. The James-personality was determined to punish himself, it seemed. Foolish. He would have to involve Stark in the effort of setting James on a different course, but the man would probably want to know why the Soldier found that to be necessary. That in turn would involve telling him of the nightmares, and from what James had observed about their ally, he would override James' order to Friday and demand to be told, so he could help again. That wouldn't do. It was bad enough that James risked their own health, they shouldn't risk their ally's health, too. Especially since Stark was unenhanced, not exactly young anymore and apparently also foolish enough to ignore his own well-being. He deemed AI's protocols to mind Stark's health to be very necessary. The Soldier would need to come up with something else and for that he needed more information.

He decided to swing by the common room for an early breakfast before heading to the BARF lab. He was still deep in thought trying to come up with a good argument that might convince his alter ego to switch to a different approach, when he entered. Stark was there already.

“You're up early,” the man commented over the rim of a steaming hot mug of coffee.

The Soldier slowed his stride, when he realized he'd been communicating in Russian with the AI all morning without even noticing. He considered whether he should pretend to be James to avoid the inevitable question as to why **he** was now in charge. But he didn't know James well enough to pretend to be him. Stark would see through it. Or Friday would tip him off. Maybe she already had. Maybe that was why Stark was here. He could have been waiting for him to show up. The Soldier didn't know what to expect.

He ended up just looking at the man without answering.

“Huh, I was wondering, when you'd be back,” Stark merely remarked, obviously having determined the reason for his silence.

It was only then it dawned on him, that if James was sleep-deprived to the point of his reasoning being compromised, then the same would be the case for him. They did share a physical brain. And he was still just staring at Stark, trying to kick his brain into gear.

“Didn't sleep well, I take it?”

The Soldier shook his head and forced himself to answer, remembering to switch to English. “No. Is there any more coffee left?”

Stark gestured at the kitchen. “Plenty. Go nuts.”

He went and poured himself a mug and set about making an omelet. “You want some?” He asked Stark.

“I dunno. Will it be edible?”

“Yes.” It wasn't until after he'd diced the vegetables that he realized Stark had tried to joke with him. At least he thought that's what it had been. The man did that a lot and the Soldier had been getting better at identifying it over the three days they had spent together previously.

A coffee-refill later he set the two plates with omelet on the table between them with the words: “It might even taste good.” He knew it was alright, and his ally would probably catch the counter-joke.

“Wow, you're a slow starter today. What gives?” Stark grinned at him. All friendly and companionable.

The Soldier still hadn't decided what to tell him and so started in on his breakfast before deciding what to say. He opted for mostly neutral. “Had over a week's worth of developments to catch up with this morning. Still digesting.”

Stark nodded sagely. “Makes sense. Plans for today? You know, since you've been catching up all morning and it's still only 5 AM.”

That did give him pause. Why would Stark be up this early? None of his business. “BARF. I will go see what it is that has James so stumped. Maybe I can sort it out. If not I'll think of something else to do.”

“Ohhhhh,” Stark clearly exaggerated the enormity of this revelation. “So he **has** been stuck on something. I knew it! I take it there's been nightmares as well? That's always fun.”

The Soldier sighed. “Friday weren't supposed to tell you about that.”

Stark just laughed a little. “She didn't need to. Last I looked in the mirror, I could've sworn I saw a pair of eyes in this face. I've even been told they're pretty. Most importantly, though, I can see with them. Did you or Barnes really expect me not to notice those dark circles under your eyes? They've been deepening to a scale replica of the Mariana Trench. Come on, gimme some credit here.”

That made sense, so the Soldier shrugged and made no reply. The question about nightmares had been rhetorical.

“Mmm! This is good. You're better at omelet than Barnes is at coffee,” Stark exclaimed around a mouthful.

The Soldier stared at the man wondering if he'd grow an extra head next. His thoughts constantly seemed to go in several directions at once.

“Never mind. Look,” Stark continued. “It's fair that you don't want me looking in on you during a nightmare again, but you don't have to lie about having them. We all have them. Me, Miss Maximoff, Rogers too as far as I know, Banner definitely. All of us. No, wait, I don't actually know if Vision does, he's a bit of a mystery, I don't actually know if sleeps at all and I never thought to ask him, but the rest of us do.”

The Soldier nodded. “Sorry. James didn't want you to worry or lose any sleep over him.”

Their ally shook his head disapprovingly. “So he forgoes an offer of help. And there I was, laboring under the impression that he was trying to figure out, whether he could ever be a good person again. Doesn't seem like it's difficult for him. Even if he's being stupid about it.” Stark rolled his eyes, though the Soldier needed no emphasis to catch his meaning.

The Soldier nodded and fell silent. James **was** being stupid about it. Something tickled at the back of his mind. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on it. It didn't feel like his memories usually did. There was... fondness? He thought that might be what it was, anyway. He wasn't particularly experienced with that segment of the human emotional range. It felt strangely soft.

He remembered voices. Lots of voices. So many that he couldn't distinguish them. He somehow knew they weren't important for the memory. A crowded place. Walking. Holding someone, the idea of being that close to a person made him twitch. He left that part of the memory alone. Focused on something else. Sound. Voices. His own. He couldn't remember ever hearing his own voice carry that much mirth. Or he could, just now, but this was new. Though it had to be old. What had he been saying that was so funny? He concentrated further.

_Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone._

The words offered no explanation of what had been funny. They were an admonishment. Something you might tell a child. He suddenly felt panic rising – had he had children before he became what he was now? That was something he was entirely unprepared to deal with. A few more thoughts later – any children he might have had wouldn't still be children after so many years. That was a relief. It didn't explain the memory, though. Something between the lines?

_How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you._

The speaker was short – like a child – but the voice was deeper. He tried to recall more, and then it hit him like a ton of bricks. Steve Rogers. Before the serum. Before the war. Before him. This wasn't his memory. It was James'.

He opened his eyes to find a worried looking Stark tensely observing him.

The Soldier took a deep breath. “I just remembered something I never experienced. Maybe whatever stupidity James has been engaging in is working anyway.”

“What? Seriously?” Stark sounded genuinely pleased.

“Pretty sure this was one of James' memories from before the war,” he clarified. “It's too specific to be **my** imagination and too vague. If that makes sense.” He knew he sounded doubtful.

“It does. And since you didn't even exist back then, the idea of merging the two of you sounds a little bit more possible now. That's great news. So what now?”

He rubbed his temples, trying to will the light sensitivity to disappear. “Same plans. I'm gonna go see what he's been losing sleep over this past week. According to his notes it's his memories of what turned him into me.”

“Think that might be the reason you're here again? He accidentally remembered those trigger words?”

Stark's suggestion wasn't too far fetched but he nonetheless shook his head. “Dunno. Possibly.” He was fairly certain the words weren't it. More likely it was remembering the process of breaking down James Barnes' personality that had broken it down once more. Or at least buried him beneath the younger personality again. Younger didn't seem right. Newer. The newer personality – he – had existed longer and was technically the older of the two, even if its experiences – his experiences – were very limited and one-tracked. The Soldier wondered if he'd ever stop being confused about himself.

“I won't spend all day with recollections of torture,” he started, meaning to ask Stark if he had any ideas on how to mitigate the nightmares James' memories would inevitably cause him. He never got that far.

“Oh really? Not your idea of a good time?”

He knew Stark was joking. The man seldom spoke more than four sentences without inserting some kind of levity and the amused smirk curling around the man's lips never left any room for doubt. The Soldier would play along and sent the other man a cruel smile like the one he'd so often seen from his handlers: “Not when **I'm** the one being tortured.”

Stark looked ever so slightly worried before he laughed. “You know, with a slightly brighter disposition and that sense of humor, I think I might end up liking you. Which is weird and unsettling, and I don't really know what to do with that, so moving on now: since you just found out that you might have access to Barnes' memories after all, why not see if BARF can help you unlock them so **you** will remember them and not just him. Come at the merger from both sides.”

It wasn't a bad idea. “Not sure how to do that. I thought I needed to start with something I do remember.”

“Well, sure, but you did just remember something. Even if it's very little, maybe BARF can help you expand it.”

“Might still not be much.” He knew his skepticism was obvious.

“True,” Stark conceded his point. “But every little bit might help. Baby steps and all that. Try it.”

The Soldier nodded in agreement. Stark was right. Even just an extra second of memory from a specific event would be an increase by several orders of magnitude. He had to try it. So that sounded like a plan. And he would write it down and encourage James to adopt that routine as well: Remembering vile things before lunch, and happier things after – on BARF days. That might help with the nightmares. It seemed Stark had unknowingly answered his question before he had even asked it. Fewer nightmares would be healthier for all involved. It would also mean the Soldier might be 'asleep' a lot longer next time if James took his advice. He might want to reconsider what advice he passed on. No. His will was strong, he wouldn't just disappear into nothing, especially since James was working on merging them. No, he had to keep his word and make the best of the time he had – even if it was less than James got. He would pass on his advice.

* * * * *

Tony made a point of joining the Soldier for lunch that day. He was curious to know what the Soldier's more pragmatic and analytical approach might yield. Very curious actually. More than even he would like to admit. Thus he was already in the common area, when the assassin walked into the room looking far more subdued than Tony had ever seen him. He had to swallow down his giddy excitement.

The man sank heavily into one of the couches instead of opting for a spot at the table. He did not look like things had gone well.

“Coffee?” The only thing he could think of offering, even though he knew it'd hardly help.

The Soldier shook his head. “Do you have vodka?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Of course he had vodka. Not much of a playboy if there was no vodka. Never mind that his playboy days had been over for years already, but old habits die hard and all that. Short answer: He had vodka.

He realized the Soldier was looking at him oddly. Oh right. Maybe not familiar with the phrase.

“The answer is duh, yes, I do. Be right back.” He paused before leaving the room. “I'm assuming you don't want any mixers?”

A quick shake of his head was all Tony got for an answer. The round-trip to his rooms and back didn't take long. He brought the bottle.

When he returned the Soldier hadn't moved an inch and looked every bit as glum as before.

“Vodka incoming.” Tony clapped him on the right shoulder as he passed behind couch. The Soldier flinched. “Shit. Sorry. No touching. My bad, I should know better.” He really should, and now he felt guilty for not having thought of it.

Tony placed a glass before his moody companion and poured. “I take it it didn't go well?” A dumb question to which the answer was obvious, but it would serve as an opener.

The speed with which the Soldier downed the entire glass of vodka made Tony's throat burn in sympathy and he poured again before he sat himself down in the chair at the end of the low lounge table. The Soldier downed the second vodka and glared at the once more empty glass. Tony offered him the bottle. There was no way he was having more than one himself. This did not seem like a good time to get drunk, however tempting the notion might seem.

“There's no simple answer to your question.” The Soldier's tone was hollow.

“Hah!” Tony couldn't help the derision in his laughter. “Is there ever? So lemme guess: Something worked or you at least learned something, but reality turned out to be a bitch?”

The other man nodded. “Exactly. It was worse than I expected.”

That didn't sound good. He had known he'd be going through memories of torture. And if anything the Winter Soldier certainly didn't look at the world through rose-tinted glasses, though Tony was sure **he** had a pair lying around somewhere, if they should be needed. If something was disturbing to a man who'd had a morbidly successful career in the maiming and killing business, Tony wasn't actually sure he wanted to know more. But as usual his curiosity got the better of him. Good thing he wasn't a cat; he would've been dead so many times over. Nine lives or not.

“Sooo, you wanna sit and mope in drunken peace, or do you need a sounding board? I'm here to help.”

The sullen soldier heaved a sigh. “I recognized someone in James' memories. I know who he is and what he does, I've been on missions with him. But I had no idea he had been instrumental in making me.”

Tony was more than a little unsettled by the way Barnes' bionic hand was clenched into a fist. “And this is a surprise appearance? He isn't mentioned in any of the records I recovered from Siberia? They seemed very thorough.”

“He is. I just didn't make the connection. I knew him under a different name.”

“Okay, you need to give me a little more to work with here. Who are we talking about?” Tony did not like being bewildered, especially not when it came to evil geniuses whose work he was helping unravel.

“It's ironic really. I owe much of my existence to my own damn country.” Tony rolled his eyes. Being born American that much was a given. He didn't think that's what the Soldier was referring to, though. He sensed more was coming, so he waited for the man to pour another drink and down it. Silence reigned. Perhaps he'd been wrong.

The Soldier continued: “A country I don't remember much of anyway. Other than from missions I've completed here.” The Soldier snorted bitterly and poured again, though this time he didn't down it immediately.

“I thought you couldn't get drunk...?”

“Oh I can. Rogers... Steve can't. But since they needed me susceptible to the drugs they used to suppress my original personality, they would have been stupid to make me immune to toxins. I'm resistant, but not immune. I can get drunk. Takes a lot more than the average person, but it can be done.”

Tony nodded and made a mental note to stock up on vodka. “So, that man?”

The Soldier started, halting, hesitant. “In the records from Siberia he's only mentioned in past tense as Johann Fennhoff, psychiatrist. By the time I was brought there, his work on me was long since finished. And having become me I no longer remembered him anyway. Later I sometimes worked as bodyguard and muscle for an interrogator I knew as Ivchenko. Psychiatrist. And hypnotist. It wasn't until I saw James' memories of the hypnosis Fennhoff used to put the control words in our head that I realized they're one and the same.”

Yeah, Tony remembered hypnosis having been mentioned, but he had never really been certain how effective it could have been; how big a part it had played. Bigger than he thought, clearly. “But knowing this is a good thing, right? Knowing more about how the man worked and his methods should make it easier to work out a countermeasure.” It was common sense. He didn't quite get why the Soldier would figure this to be a problem.

The man's eyes were dark with hatred when they met Tony's. “You haven't seen him work.”

Tony gulped, feeling like the temperature in the room just dropped by twenty degrees. “Uh okay. Wanna let me in on these secrets? Kinda hard to help, when I don't know what I'm helping with.”

Another vodka shot disappeared. “James has a lot of my memories. I don't have a lot of his.”

“And neither of you remember much of pre-war Bucky. I still think that's something you both should work on,” Tony interjected.

The Soldier nodded in agreement but continued without further addressing Tony's statement. “I remember dying. Or almost dying. The fall from the freight car, when The Howling Commandos captured Arnim Zola. For years I didn't know that's what it was, but it started coming back to me after Pierce fried my brain just before the launch of Insight. Something Steve said about the end of line.”

Tony had only some idea what the man was referring to, but decided not to comment. He didn't have that kind of details from those events, since **someone** had forgotten to mention the continued existence of Sergeant Barnes.

“The last of the control words means freight car. And it always triggers a sense of falling and then everything goes black, and I could never remember anything after that, and thus never had the option of wondering about it. But after Insight. After the Potomac and Steve. I started to get those flashes of falling. It probably also helped that Steve and I fell into the Potomac from one of those helicarriers. But falling. And I started connecting that sense to the word for freight car, and eventually I began to remember images of where I fell. A train, snow covered mountains and an icy river.”

Tony felt himself blanch and his stomach clenched, spots swam in his vision. He knew a thing or two about falling to his death. Or what he expected to be his death. It had happened more than once – during test flights and that one time over New York. According to Jarvis he had actually died there, albeit only been dead very briefly. Breathe. Remember to breathe, he reminded himself. Focus on the facts. You can have your self-indulgent nightmares later. He knew he would. Talk, you idiot, distract yourself!

“Wait, so Ivchenko, Fennhoff, this guy took your own experiences and turned them into your trigger words?” Tony could hardly believe his ears. How many times had they been used? How many times had this man been forced to relive his own death without even knowing that's what it was? The extreme sadism of that was beyond Tony's ability to grasp.

The Soldier nodded. “That's how he worked. He used people's own memories against them. So first he used James'... Bucky's memories to lay in the control words, and then they fried my brain, so I would have none of the original memories left and no means of thinking critically about any of it.”

“But how would Fennhoff or Ivchenko know about any of these experience of yours? How did he know to use it?”

“Simpler than you might think. On that train was Zola. Capturing him was our mission. Though James didn't make it, the Commandos brought Zola back to the SSR in '44. He officially defected and became part of Operation Paperclip, eventually also working from within Shield. But he never truly defected. He's the one who seeded Hydra within your Shield, before Shield was even thought of.”

Tony nodded. Impressed. “Wow. You **have** been busy.”

“Yes. Also before Shield, while the SSR was still active, another German was caught. He was Johann Fennhoff a.k.a. Ivchenko. According to the reports Friday managed to find for me, Peggy Carter and the remaining Commandos were instrumental in infiltrating the Red Room and extracting him in '47.”

That caught Tony's attention. “Wait, the Red Room? That's where Romanov was trained.”

“Romanov **a**. She's a woman,” the Soldier corrected automatically.

“She goes by Romanov over here,” Tony waved the correction off. “She's made some allusions to brainwashing as well.”

“She's too young to have met Fennhoff, but I'm sure he had protégés to carry on his work there. The SSR had him in custody, and that gave Zola access to him. Zola had already treated James with serum and though he'd fallen down a mountain, Zola knew there was a chance, he would still be alive. He would also expect him to be as defiant as always. Zola's people found him and kept him on ice until the madman had earned enough trust and freedom to come take a look of his own. And later he brought in Fennhoff. James remembers Fennhoff. I have no direct memory of all the things that were done to him to make him me.” But this morning he had seen James' memories of just that and by the look on his face it was perfectly clear that the Soldier didn't feel the need to go into detail about those things.

“Now you've seen,” Tony tried.

“And I know how good Ivchenko was at making people do his bidding. I'm no longer sure those words **can** be negated. I may never be my own man again.” The Soldier glared at the empty vodka glass as if it was to blame. “And after these memories, I'm not sure I'd be able to trust a psychiatrist again. And don't even think of suggesting another hypnotist, because I'd probably kill them without even meaning to.”

Tony for his part wasn't about to suggest that anyone just take that chance. Steve would probably trust Bucky to never let it get that far, but no version of Bucky was anywhere close to the personification of gloom currently halfway through a bottle of vodka without any notable effects, except maybe a slight deepening of the gloom. Ironic how he trusted the Winter Soldier's judgment on this, but the man had proven to be impressively clear-headed.

“We'll figure something out,” he attempted to reassure the both of them, as he grabbed his tablet and pulled up the Shield/Hydra reports Friday had scrounged up to help their resident head case research his own past. Zola had indeed been there for the establishment of Shield, just like many other German and Russian scientists and intelligence officers. Of course some fakers would have slipped through the cracks; bad apples spoiling the bunch. And Rogers had been present all these years later, when everything came to a head and fell apart. Perhaps his stubborn opinion that the safest hands were their own wasn't so much based in reasoning, but rather on seeing Peggy Carter's life's work destroyed from within. Tony hadn't thought to counter that part of the argument.

Tony had learned not to trust himself. Rogers had learned not to trust anyone else.

It was a thought for another day. The odd note about Zola-related activity only a few years ago, he would also have to look into later. Right now he had more pressing concerns. In just over a week he'd have someone to bounce ideas off of, and he sorely needed that. And there was an idea forming in the back of his head, but whether it was good... it probably wasn't; it was his idea. He would need to run it by Rigger first. She'd have a reasonable opinion. For now he needed to keep Barnes on track.

He pasted on the optimistic mask of nonchalance he had mastered so many years ago. “All right, can we be done with the Grumpy McSadface? We've got work to do. I still think you should go and spend the afternoon trying to unearth pre-war memories. Leave all these revelations on a shelf for later. You know, like you planned this morning. We don't have a deadline for this. You have as much time as you need, and you've only been at it for two and half, almost three, weeks. It's way too early to give up. Give yourself a break and go find a happy memory somewhere. I know there has to be some.”

The Soldier looked at him blank and ominous. “How do you manage all that optimism? Where does it come from? I know you don't actually have a miraculous solution for my problem. You would've told me.”

“It's an act,” Tony admitted. “Mostly for my own benefit. But it works. I just need to keep my hopes up until I can find the right person to make the pieces fit. Sometimes it takes time, but I always manage. Even if neither of us can see how we're gonna fix your brain right now, trust that I have the resources to find the solution even if it might take a while.”

The Soldier looked doubtful, but eventually let out a resigned sigh. “Can I take the rest of this?” He held up the bottle of vodka.

“Sure. I'll have Friday order more in case you plan to get drunk on the regular. Anything besides vodka I should stock up on?”

“James prefers bourbon,” came the entirely predictable reply and he grinned.

“Gotcha. Now go do yourself a favor and use BARF for something happier than torture porn.” With that he left the common area and only then realized they'd both completely forgotten all about lunch. Not that he had much of an appetite after this talk. He had Friday order something to be sent to the workshop. He had work to do on the new suit for Peter and would eat there.

He didn't see the other man for four entire days. Friday assured him that Barnes – or rather, the Soldier – was still working on memory recovery, that he wasn't lying somewhere in a drunken stupor, and that he had actually done as Tony had suggested, and was working specifically on memories of a pre-war Bucky. After those days of radio silence and probably a fair bit of avoidance – which Tony used to get some work done on the doors – the Soldier joined him for dinner in the workshop. Friday had passed on the request and he had allowed it.

The taller man walked through the door and went directly to the table and set the pizza boxes down. Tony had only watched him out of the corner of an eye from the far end of the room, while he was finishing up some tweaks on his latest version of a micro repulsor jet. When the Soldier suddenly straightened up and looked behind him in confusion, however, Tony just had to turn his full attention to the scene. He had a pretty good idea of what to expect. Confusion evident on his face the Soldier took a step back towards the door, regretted it, looked to Tony with suspicion and then resolutely walked back to the door, which dutifully opened. Not a sound was heard.

The Soldier looked at him. “You fixed it.”

“Nope. It wasn't broken, so I didn't fix anything. But I did improve it,” Tony responded with a cheeky grin.

The look he got was unreadable and he wondered if he dared ask why the sound of pressure seals releasing had been such a trigger for the man – both of the personalities. He decided against it. It was probably something he didn't want to know about anyway. He had enough nightmares as it were, and last time he became privy to details of The Soldier's experiences it had induced another wonderful round of delightfully realistic nightmares about falling out of the sky. He didn't need further reminders thank you very much.

“Thank you. James will appreciate it also.”

Tony just gave him a curt nod to let him know he'd heard him. He turned back to his jet, still pondering how to fix the excess heat problem at this size, and spoke with his back to the Soldier. “Lemme just finish up this thing and I'll be right with you.”

He heard the whisper of cardboard boxes being opened, a soft grunt and then the clattering sound of a kitchen drawer being searched. He looked over his shoulder to see the Winter Soldier himself fearsomely wielding a pizza wheel. It took all the impulse control Tony had left to not laugh out loud. Not that he had much to begin with. Impulse control that was. Maybe a slight chuckle slipped out. The Soldier looked over at him and lifted a humorously questioning eyebrow in his direction. It was a distinctly Barnesian expression and suddenly Tony wasn't actually sure who he would be dining with.

Finishing up in the workshop could wait. He needed to know. He walked over there, weaving around worktables and clutter, wiping off the worst of the engine grease and sweat with his previously discarded t-shirt. The Soldier held his gaze the entire time. He obviously knew he had caught Tony's curiosity.

“Okay, spill it. You look like the cat that caught the canary. You must have remembered something good.”

The Soldier nodded and held out a pizza box encouraging Tony to grab a slice. The man was smiling. It was unsettling. Tony had no idea what to do with it; an oddly common affliction for him these days it seemed. It wasn't even the cruel smile he'd employed as a bitter joke the other day. It was a genuine smile, even Tony could see it. And it still somehow managed to look wrong – like a shirt that didn't fit right over the shoulders – and obviously the Soldier knew that as well, because he was beginning to fidget under Tony's scrutiny.

Tony took mercy on the man, turned his attention to the pizza, selected a slice, rolled it up for minimal grease dispersal and flung himself into his chair dragging his free hand through his hair, not caring that pizza sauce joined engine grease in an aromatic mix of little to no charm. “Come on. The suspense is killing me here.”

The Soldier looked down at his own slice of pizza and when he looked up again he spoke. “I remembered feeling happy.”

Tony stilled mid-chew. He was about to ask for clarification, but immediately thought better of it. There was no answer that wouldn't just hammer home how heart-breaking it really was. Stop thinking about that, he reminded himself. Keep it together.

“I didn't know...” the Soldier said quietly. “I never knew.”

Yeah, Tony definitely didn't need to say anything and make everything worse. Shit, he was not equipped to handle other people's feelings. He could barely handle his own. And this? This was just... what the hell was he doing with his life? This was likely not what Yinsen had hoped for, when he implored Tony to not waste his life. He swallowed a lump. Idiot. Definitely do not think of that right now.

“But now you do,” Tony forced out, and hoped his voice didn't sound too strangled. “That gives you something work with. Can I ask what the memory was?” He would so much prefer to speak of events rather than the accompanying emotions.

“Bucky... I mean I,” the Soldier corrected himself, “used to be a boxer. I remembered the celebration after I won a championship. It was... unfamiliar. I felt happy in the memory. And now I don't. And I want to, but I don't know how, and I'm not sure what to do now.” The man pointedly did not look at Tony. “I think you may need to lower your standards, because this cannot continue much longer without some competent help. I can kill people in several ways, many of them really creative, but this is beyond the scope of what I'm capable of improvising my way through.”

Tony nodded and stared. “Yeah. Same.” He for his part pointedly ignored how much he related to what the Soldier had just said. That realization that they had more in common than they should have was best left untouched now. And forever. “I may have an idea for an alternative – you know, since you expressed apprehension about a clinician of any kind – but I have a few more things I need to make sure of before I get your hopes up.”

The Soldier looked up again. Regarded him through hooded eyes and eventually just nodded clearly accepting his premise.

“By the way,” Tony said, desperate for a different topic. “Did Friday tell you that Miss Maximoff should be back in the Compound tonight?”

The Soldier nodded. “Wanda. James has only made few mentions of her in his notes. He's not entirely sure what to think of her. She's willing to help, but can't yet, and she can read minds?”

“Huh, yeah, that about sums it up.”

“Think she'll be back early enough to want to talk?”

“Absolutely. Shouldn't be long. Why?”

“I get to meet her. I've caught up on enough sleep now that I think James might be back tomorrow.”

“Wait. You can tell?”

The Soldier shrugged. “I'm guessing. But your theory from when I took over the first time seems to hold.”

“I see. Well, that's good to know,” Tony mused.

“Yeah, that way he just needs to get enough sleep and he won't have to worry about me taking over again,” the Soldier groused darkly.

“Hm? No, I meant that it's good to know that he'll never get so sleep-deprived to go completely crazy. You'll take over before that happens. That's comforting, actually. And right there on the list of things I never thought I'd say.”

The look the Soldier sent his way was odd.

As it turned out, the Soldier had a keen sense of his own condition. Tony had witnessed him and the witch have an awkward first meeting not long after their pizza had been devoured. The next morning James was back, and it had taken every argument in the book to keep him from heading directly to the BARF suite after he'd read the Soldier's notes about the recovered memory from Bucky's past.

Five days later it was with a great deal of optimism Tony and a both nervous and excited Rhodey welcomed Dr. Caldwell and her team, known to them all and aware of the situation, as well as Dr. Palmer and her team, who came highly recommended by the neurosurgeon he had initially sought to help Rhodey.

When finally he could also welcome one Ulrika “Rigger” Mortensen, he began to truly feel that things would be alright. Especially since she arrived in yet another new invention – or semi-new. Now he knew what she'd needed the arc reactor for that he'd given her, and he would 100 % need to grill her on why she'd used it for modding a fifty year old chopper. Probably just for fun. 'Cause she was like him in that regard. But first they would fix his Rhodey. This would work. He knew it. He already had the post-surgery celebration planned. And Pepper would be there.


	6. Hardwired

The room was buzzing with excitement, but he couldn't allow himself to join in. It was on him to make sure that everything went smoothly. It was his duty as Head of Security.

And Happy Hogan did not shirk his duties. Ever.

He surveyed the room for the seventh time in ten minutes. Secretary Ross was still flanked by a navy admiral and an army general. Good. That way the Secretary wouldn't feel his importance was being overlooked. Happy had promised Tony to above all else keep the old windbag content this evening. It was the safest way of keeping trouble from their doorstep.

Two of the several attending air force brass stood not far from Ross, so at least for a while Happy could be fairly certain all was well in that corner. There was a lot of military brass from both the US, UK and Denmark present. And an equally impressive number of medical professionals – surgeons and researchers – had also been invited.

Vision was conversing with some of Colonel Rhodes' close colleagues. While their odd synthetic friend was still somewhat awkward in deeper personal connections, he had mastered smalltalk and superficial conversations about any relevant subjects of the night. There would be no issues there.

He did have some concerns when he noticed Pepper talking to Dr. Caldwell, the former medical chief of The Raft, who had since moved on to other assignments. Two formidable women who – according to Tony – could melt steel bars with a glare if need be. As long as they were conversing amicably all was well. He hoped that would last, but he had entirely too little intel on the doctor to know what to expect.

Tony trusted her implicitly, but given Tony's track record with who he decided to trust, Happy wasn't about to stop thinking for himself. He had found next to nothing, when he did a background check on the woman; Her records were either sealed or so squeaky clean it made them suspicious. He didn't like it, but for now Tony's past successful endeavor with her and her involvement with Rhodes' surgery would have to speak for her. Two instances weren't enough to establish a pattern, so he'd be vigilant.

Dr. Palmer on the other hand had been easy to do a background check on. Everything about her was out in the open. More or less anyway. It had even been easy for him to figure out her past romantic involvement with the neurosurgeon who recommended her. A recommendation from Dr. Stephen Strange wasn't something to scoff at, even if she was his ex, so her credentials were beyond reproach. Even if she was a brilliant surgeon she was painfully ordinary compared to nearly everyone else in the room and she would probably not believe it, if anyone told her the true identities of the two people she was currently talking to. Happy liked her. A lot.

He liked normal. He wished Tony had more normal people in his life. Like May. Peter and May were standing off to one side – the kid was here on account of his internship with Stark Industries, May was his +1 on account of him being a minor still. There was nothing normal about what the kid could do, but he was still also just so normal. Teenager-normal. Happy almost wished he could just go and hang out and have a good time, but even if he did have the night off, he'd still be on the look-out. He knew the kind of people Tony knew. He knew Tony. Some things had just become ingrained.

Rigger, in dark green dress uniform, looking just like all the other military attendees in the room, was deep in conversation with a US army general. They were standing close enough to Happy that he could make out some of their conversation. The general was very interested in her inventions – weapons, of course. No surprise there. Ever since Tony had shut down all weapons manufacturing and withdrawn from all defense contracts the military was always on the look-out for other suppliers. No one had been able to be as consistently brilliant as Stark Industries. The Danish engineer consistently brilliantly referred the general to speak to Danish High Command. Deflection, deflection, deflection. It must get tedious. Happy grinned when Rigger caught the eye of the Danish Minister of Defense and waved her over to take over any negotiations the general wanted to start.

Happy hadn't been present, but he had heard Tony and Jim tell the story of how the Danish delegation – the Minister herself heading it – had went to bat for their people with the Accords Council. Minister Berggren, whose name he still hadn't figured out how to pronounce without embarrassing himself so he went with Ma'am, was in her mid-fifties; short with curly brown hair that was graying at the temples. She might not look like much, but if the US started negotiating arms deals with her, they would need to watch their treasury. He didn't foresee it happening, though. That was not the kind of R&D Rigger did. She customized things – nothing was designed for mass production.

Now having carefully extricated herself from the previous conversation, Rigger headed over to two of the nurses from the medical teams involved. The other nurses present in the room were also in conversation with military personnel. Somehow those groups always gravitated towards each other even when not at work.

Rigger. Happy also liked her, though she was far from normal. This liking was for an entirely different reason. A laughing Tony had told him how Rigger's friend had called their time together a 'playdate', and judging from the times Happy had seen them in the workshop, dancing around their inventions and each other to whatever music they could agree on listening to, a playdate was exactly the term to describe it. He hadn't seen his boss look so happy and relaxed since before he and Pepper split up. That brought him back to the magnificent Miss Potts. He really hoped Tony would get his act together. It was painfully obvious from the way Pepper looked at Tony that she still loved him, but she was wise enough to keep herself safe and stay away as long as Tony was being a reckless fool. Happy could do absolutely nothing about that. He wished he could.

Tony's voice sounded quietly in his earpiece. “He's ready. Well, no, he isn't. He hates the attention, but he's ready. We good?”

“We are, boss. Everything's in place, everyone's here, everybody has drinks and we're good to go.”

“Great. Let's get this show on the road, then.” Through a door at the other end of the room Tony appeared and cleared his throat. It took only a short while before everyone had quieted – this **was** what they'd all been waiting for. Now all he had to do was keep it together and not do anything embarrassing and all would be fine.

“Good evening, everyone. I'm so glad you could make it. I won't bore you with unnecessarily boring speeches, because we all know what you're really here for. You're about to witness a prototype you won't actually be able to see – just the effects of it. I hope you won't be too disappointed.” People chuckled politely.

“As you know, roughly ten months ago a skirmish led to Colonel Jim Rhodes crashing in the War Machine armor and shattering three vertebrae and completely severing his spinal cord. Now don't get me wrong, doctors are very good these days. Sometimes they can put the severed ends of nerves back together and get them to heal, but Jim was missing a few inches of healthy nerves, so that option was out.”

“Since Jim's my friend I've helped him out with a harness to allow him to walk. But I have another friend who has some experience with making tech that can interface directly with the human nervous system. It is very experimental and has to be customized individually down to the tiniest details or it'll just end up killing the recipient, but we've managed. I hope that in time Stark Industries and whoever will be partnering with us can manage to decrease the need for customization, so the tech can become more widely available to those who need it.” Both medical and military people nodded approvingly at that. In those fields everybody knew at least one person with issues currently irreparable with available methods.

“A great big thank you goes to my friend for helping me help my other friend, you asked me not to name you. I wish you all the best of luck in maintaining your anonymity for the rest of the night.” Nobody looked in Rigger's direction. It seemed that even those who knew her to build weapons and vehicles didn't make the connection. Good for her.

“Another great big thank you to Doctors Caldwell and Palmer and their teams for being willing to risk their professional reputation by agreeing to do surgery previously unheard of. But now I will spare you anymore of me and get to what you're really here for. I am very happy to show off the results of a successful spinal cord and vertebrae replacement surgery. Come on out, Colonel Rhodes.” Tony gestured at the door.

It was a massive round of applause that accompanied Jim's entrance. Dressed sharply in his gala uniform, he saluted the room and walked as though he hadn't been paralyzed from the waist down until five days earlier. Happy felt privileged. He was one of the very few people in the room, who knew exactly how much it meant to Tony to have been able to help his oldest friend like this.

Jim and Tony walked the room together for the rest of the evening, taking questions and answering very, very few of them.

Not long into the canapés there was a tug at his sleeve. “Uhm, Mr. Happy, Hogan, sir?”

He turned to look at the Parker kid, who looked agitated. “It's just Happy, kid. What's cookin'?”

“Uhm... can we talk, where no one will hear?” The kid tried and failed to avoid looking paranoid.

Happy placed a hand on Peter's arm. “Hey relax, kid. Everything's fine.”

“No!” Clearly surprised by his own vehemence he immediately lowered his voice to a whisper. “I mean, no. It's not. We have a problem. A huge problem. Like. Really bad.”

He looked around and decided to walk the kid to the nearest door. With his arm around the teen's shoulders he could easily feel the barely contained tension. “So? What is it?”

“I wasn't sure at first, but I've been watching him for an hour, sir, and I'm absolutely positive it's him!”

Happy had no idea what the kid was talking about, but he knew the identity of every single person in the room, and all was in order. “Kid, you're not on patrol. You don't have to keep an eye on things.” God. He was so much like Tony it was uncanny. Always feeling that obligation to do whatever he could, even if he didn't have to and no one reasonable would ever expect it of him.

“But I can't turn it off! And it's him! This is important!”

“Wait, who's him? He's who?” The kid made no sense, but there was no mistaking the earnest concern, bordering on panic, in his eyes.

“Captain Rogers' friend, sir. The guy with the cool metal arm! He's here!”

How the kid had managed to figure that out, Happy had no idea. This was not good. “Okay, okay, keep calm, kid. We've got the situation under control.”

“Nonono, you don't understand! I was with Mr. Stark. In Germany. And I fought him! I know it's him! What if he's here to hurt Mr. Stark?” Peter's volume was slowly increasing again.

“Shhh! Not so loud. You don't want the whole room to panic, do you?” Happy opened the door and pulled Peter outside. “Friday, get Tony to our location asap. We have a situation.” The kid tried to duck back in there, but Happy grabbed his arm and held him back, grateful that he wasn't really trying to resist. “Kid! I know! It's under control!” Happy hissed the words at him, feeling slightly guilty for it.

“But what if he's after one of the generals? Or Ross? I can't just leave Aunt May in there. What if he blows something up here as well?”

“Kid! Shut up and wait for Mr. Stark.”

“But Mr. Happy, sir. It's not... I know it's him!”

Happy grabbed both the kid's shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Kid. Breathe. Slowly. Mr. Stark will be here in a minute. Then you can explain it to him. Please be coherent when you do.” Peter relaxed only minutely.

Thankfully it took less than a minute before Tony joined them, a concerned frown nestled between his brows. “What's the situation?”

“Mr. Stark, sir. He's here. The Winter Soldier is here. He doesn't look like himself, but I know it's him. Please believe me. I'm not paranoid! I got this weird... tingle, and I can't turn it off, so I started looking around. And I fought him in Germany and I know how he moves. I've been watching him for an hour. It's definitely him, sir. And we can't let him hurt anyone. How do we get him out without anyone getting hurt?”

Tony dragged a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. Happy knew exactly how his boss felt. “I didn't know what to tell him, boss,” he said apologetically.

“Peter...” Tony began. “Yes. You're right. He's here. But he's not a threat, and he's under my protection. He won't hurt anyone. I promise.”

“But Mr. Stark...?” Lost and confused was a look Happy saw so often on this kid it had almost become permanent. “I don't understand...”

“I should've known you'd sniff him out.” Tony sighed and shook his head. “I'll explain it to you. All of it. But not tonight. Kinda busy. You don't have to worry about him hurting anyone. I promise. Can you live with that until sometime tomorrow?”

“I... guess?” The kid still looked doubtful. “Are you sure? He's in disguise. I'm not sure how, but he definitely is.”

“Yes. I provided it. He's officially still wanted, so I don't want all the military brass to know he's here.”

The kid nodded slowly, hesitantly and then suddenly looked at Happy. “Wait. You knew, too?”

Happy smiled at him. “I'm Head of Security, kiddo. Course I knew. I'm supposed to know that sort of thing. You're the one who's not.”

“Sorry.” The kid looked sheepish and Happy instantly felt bad for him. He was trying so hard.

Tony wagged a finger at him. “Don't be. You did good. You just didn't have all the facts.”

“I... did? Oh. Okay. So... what should I do? Just go back in there and pretend like nothing?”

Happy grinned and winked conspiratorially at him. “That's exactly what you do. Trust us, it's handled. Just keep the secret. I promise, I'll remind Mr Stark that he promised to tell you tomorrow.”

That at least made him relax slightly. Still looking doubtful Peter nonetheless did slip back into the room.

Happy looked at his boss who looked back at him with a tired expression. “Happy, help me out here. How does he manage to annoy me and make me proud at the same time?”

It was all he could do to not tell Tony he was getting a dose of his own medicine. “No idea where he picked that up, boss. Want me to keep an eye on him?”

Just then the door opened again and Peter peeked through. “Uhm, can I go talk to him?”

Now Happy was confused. “Wait, kid, why would you wanna go talk to him? Moments ago you were ready to fight him if necessary.”

“Well, I figure, if Mr. Stark trusts him,” the teen explained looking almost hopeful. “He must be alright. And he and I kinda got off on the wrong foot in Germany, well, you know about that, so uhm... yeah. So can I?”

Happy looked to Tony for a decision. “Yeah alright. He's pretty clever, though, so he'll probably recognize you if you do, so think about it, alright?”

“I will, Mr. Stark. Thank you.” With that he popped back into the hall, leaving the adults to exchange worried glances.

“Definitely keep an eye on him. Not that I think he'll do anything stupid, but... he's still a kid and secrets aren't his strongest suit. Barnes won't out him. He knows better, but just...” Tony sighed.

“Of course, boss. Leave it to me.” He gestured at the door. “We should get back in there, before anyone starts to wonder.”

“Ugh, yeah.” Tony looked decidedly unhappy with those prospects and Happy once again witnessed how his boss managed to project a completely different mood than he was feeling. One second he was looking at the door leading back into the room like it had personally offended him, the next he looked like the smiling, attention-craving playboy everyone thought him to be. He even managed to prevent his true mood from shining through in his eyes. Happy had never met a better actor than this man. Nor a lonelier one.

They rejoined the room and Tony schmoozed his way through all of the relevant people present, securing funding and researchers for the new Stark Industries mission: affordable bionic limbs with natural movement range that wouldn't actually kill people.

* * * * *

Aimlessly wandering the halls after another nightmare inevitably lead James to the lounge. A pair of bright blue eyes focused on him the moment he set foot through the door. Alert. Clearly she'd heard him coming. He nodded in greeting. Got a curt nod in return. He headed for the fridge.

“Can I get ya anything?” They were the only two people in the room. She would know he was talking to her.

“Uh, sure. Beer. Bottom shelf. There's a six-pack of mine. Grab one for yourself as well, if you like, Sergeant Barnes.” She sounded faintly surprised, but her tone was amicable. That was good, especially since she apparently knew who he was. Even in this compound, mostly among allies, he couldn't always expect friendliness. Now if only he could figure out who she was... he was pretty certain he'd seen her at the party the previous evening, but she couldn't possibly have seen him there. Not while knowing it was him. Since Friday hadn't warned him about her presence in the lounge, she was apparently considered a non-threat to the secret of **his** presence.

He'd gotten a lot more clear-headed over the past month. Surprisingly, talking to Stark, who everyone had said was probably the most selfish bastard one the planet, was oddly cathartic. It was obvious the two of them had much in common, though neither of them had actually fully put to words what it was just yet. Aside from the mutual acknowledgment that nightmares and trauma plagued them both.

James constantly struggled to find the right words. In conversation as well as in his head. Far more than his alter ego seemed to. It didn't exactly make it easier to convince people that he wasn't plotting to kill anyone or was about to explode in violence. But at least he was improving and he had even managed to engage in smalltalk earlier that evening, before he'd had to slip out due to exhaustion.

Better or not, he still wasn't his old charming self in social interactions. Too much baggage, too little balance. And though he **was** slowly beginning to remember what he'd once been, it mostly just felt weird and unfamiliar and not like it was actually him. He might remember more of his old self, but he wasn't feeling it. He wondered if he ever would.

He handed the opened bottle to the woman and sat down on the couch opposite hers. Leaning back into the soft cushions he couldn't help the little groan of relief that escaped him. She raised the bottle in a salute and with a small lopsided smile said in a strikingly broad Cockney: “To peace and quiet after an evening of being out-peopled.”

James grinned. “I hear ya.” He could definitely get behind that.

He only briefly looked at the bottle before he downed a swallow. German beer. And not at all what he'd expected. It felt thick and heavy on his tongue.

“Whoah, strong stuff.” He raised an eyebrow at the woman, who sent him a sly grin. It probably wasn't the first time someone had been surprised by her choice beverage, he surmised.

“Yeah,” she agreed, a humorous glint in her eyes. “And if you pour it, you'll find it's as black as tar and nearly as viscous.”

He studied the bottle and then took another mouthful; sweetness followed by bitterness. He considered. Nodded. “I like it.”

“Cheers, then,” she declared and tipped her shaved head in another toast.

Companionable silence filled the room as they sat with their beer and their thoughts. The same type of easy quiet he had once shared with Steve. Another one of the many things they had attempted to re-establish from their lives before the war and... everything. And the one thing that had been compromised as his well-meaning friend became more and more impatient with his slow recovery. Or lack thereof. Easy quiet didn't seem to be in Steve's repertoire. James couldn't remember if it ever had been. It made him feel guilty.

He snuck another glance at the woman. He hadn't been paying all that much attention earlier, so didn't know much about her. He decided that she had to be that engineer-friend of Stark's who had been pivotal in helping repair Colonel Rhodes' spine. Apparently she hadn't wanted everyone to know that it was her. And she was apparently English. Well-trained, too, judging from the muscles of her bare arms and shoulders. She didn't look like a scientist. Her bearing was wrong. It was hard to tell, sitting relaxed as she was, but she seemed too... too military?

Of course! He mentally kicked himself. Of course! The other Sergeant that had been mentioned. Everyone else had been military brass and there'd been one sergeant. One that wasn't him. Had to be her. This was what he got for not really socializing very well. Yeah, replace the anonymous gray sweatpants with combat fatigues and the... well, come to think about it, that tank top probably already was military issue. It looked like it. Definitely military. And he was definitely not on top of his game.

“Just asking's an option, you know?” Her voice interrupted his self-berating and overly analytical train of thought.

“Huh?” He looked fully at her, not quite caught up yet. She leaned forward on the couch, elbows now resting on her knees, bottle dangling from the fingers of her left hand. She pinned him with a sharp look.

“I see you looking. I'm used to it, believe me. You can just ask. I'd rather you did that, actually. Especially you.” Her grimace was as bitter as the beer they shared.

He blinked, struggling to get his brain in gear. “Sorry. Didn't mean to be rude.” Okay, he'd tackle it head-on. Might as well. “I thought women in the military were a lot more common these days. People still give you grief about that?”

Her eyebrows shot up. Perplexed, she tilted her head. “You... don't know? Nobody told you?”

Now he was getting more confused by the second. He didn't bother hiding it either. “Told me what?”

Her perplexed look became one of incredulity and then one of mirth as the corners of her eyes crinkled. James for his part was still every bit as lost. She stood. He was about to get up as well, old habits die hard, but she gestured for him to remain seated. He complied.

“I should be the one to apologize, then. Guess I'm too used to being the only freak around,” she said, as if that clarified anything for him at all.

She bent down and put her beer bottle on the low table between them, then stepped off to the side. “Don't take this the wrong way, but it's easier to just show you, so I'm just going to drop my trousers.”

He was so glad he hadn't just taken another swig of beer, because that would have been completely wasted as he spluttered in surprise. “What?”

She just grinned knowingly at him and dropped the sweatpants.

Oh.

Oh shit.

He swallowed thickly. “I'm... sorry. I didn't know.” That was one thing he would never have seen coming.

She snorted softly. “Obviously. Unlike yours, these are easier to hide.”

He nodded and looked her up and down. She was wearing a pair of snug shorts – also military issue as far as he could tell – covering most of her thighs, but everything below those shorts was metal. He glanced briefly at the arm Princess Shuri had designed for him as his send-off gift and then back to the pair of robotic pegs the woman before him sported. His gaze caught on her feet.

“Why wear socks?” Brilliant, Barnes, he chastised himself, your conversational skills are truly magnificent. But he'd already said the words.

Her wide grin put him at ease, though. Clearly she didn't mind that question. “Gotta wear something to avoid clacking on the floor and shoes seem weird when indoors.” She shrugged and sat back down in her former spot, grabbing her beer and in the same motion taking a deep gulp. Then she proceeded to peel off the thick, fluffy socks revealing two-toed robotic feet. James guessed the normal amount of toes wasn't as important as the amount of fingers in terms of functionality. He looked down at the hand and flexed the shiny, artificial digits.

“Oh, and don't be sorry for not knowing.” Her face was back to the more neutral look. “It's refreshing, really. It's not all that often I get the chance to tell people myself. Usually scuttlebutt's well ahead of me.”

James nodded. He remembered army life well enough by now and if there's one thing soldiers excelled at across the board it's that. “Guess some things never change,” he offered with a small smile.

“Hah! Guess not.” There was genuine humor in her eyes he was relieved to see.

“At least now it makes sense why you said 'especially me'. You had me really confused there,” he admitted out loud.

She huffed and ducked her head a little. “Yeah, that was a bit more snippy than you deserved as it turns out. Thanks for being a good sport about it.”

“No problem. Takes more than a few words to hurt me,” he assured her with a shrug, hating how his mind helpfully reminded him that some words did harm him – or made him harm others. Nonetheless he found himself relaxing more and more in her company. Getting the obvious out of the way would be a good idea right about now, though: “Uhh, I gotta admit, I really haven't been paying attention today. You're Stark's engineer-colleague? And military? Sergeant...?” He let the question float and hoped she wouldn't take offense.

“Mortensen. Sergeant Ulrika “Rigger” Mortensen. Combat engineer, special forces, R&D and currently in the post-op phase of the assignment of helping Tony Stark fix a certain US Air Force Colonel's spine. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sergeant Barnes. Properly, that is.” She saluted lazily from her seated position. There was that easy grin again. He really liked this woman, he decided.

“I dunno how proper it is. Introducing yourself **after** dropping your pants,” he deadpanned, hoping he'd correctly assessed her sense of humor.

He had. As evidenced by Sergeant Mortensen throwing her head back and barking out a full-throated laugh. Relieved, he chuckled along with her, not yet feeling quite loose enough to fully laugh and when they quieted the air in the room felt different; warmer. “Thanks, mate, I needed that.” She drained the rest of her beer and got up. “Want another?”

He couldn't quite interpret the look in her eyes and so decided to take her question at face value. “Please and thank you.”

She walked off to the kitchen and he found himself staring at her legs. His own bionic arm was the only artificial limb he'd ever gotten a look at. This was... something else. And he understood her point about clacking. The servos in her legs were almost as quiet as those in his arm, though, and a great deal quieter than those in his old one. That's why he hadn't noticed on his own. Pretty advanced tech. He was now also fairly certain she wore socks because of the look and not just the noise. While her knees seemed to move more or less like their biological counterparts would have, the ankles and feet – arches and toes – definitely did not. He had heard the archer use the term 'uncanny valley'; that definitely applied here. Definitely.

She returned and handed him the promised beer with a crooked grin. This time she sat down beside him. On his left. “May I?” She indicated the hand and he nodded his acquiescence holding out the limb for her to examine. She put her beer on the table and focused on him instead.

He took another swig of his own beer and watched her as she gently ran her fingertips over the hand. “You know, you don't have to be gentle or anything. It's pressure sensitive enough for me to have an idea how hard I'm gripping something and to know that something is pushing on it, but no real sense of touch.”

She looked up at him with a frown. “Like mine, then, but I don't treat other people's possessions roughly, why would I do so with a limb? Artificial or not, that'd just be disrespectful.”

“Huh, yeah, I guess.” He continued watching as she examined the fingers, becoming nearly as entranced with her fascination as **she** seemed to be with the bionic limb. He fought down the urge to touch her in return with his real hand. The only ones who'd normally sit this close to him, much less touch him, was Steve and more recently Stark. He needed to focus on something else. “So, English, huh?”

She chuckled. “Nope. Sorry mate. Guess again.”

“That's interesting. Your accent had me fooled. Cockney, isn't it?”

“Some of it,” she acknowledged and let go of the hand, reaching for her beer once again. Her eyes focused on his face. “Most of it, probably, when I'm not actively trying to curb it.”

It was his turn to frown now. “Why would you wanna curb your accent?”

Beer in hand, she turned sideways on the couch, towards him, drawing her right leg up under her. Resting her right arm on the back of the couch she smiled at him. Not the sly smile or the mischievous grin he'd already seen. This smile was just... comfortable. Warm.

“Like you said: It's Cockney,” she stated with a shrug as if that were all the explanation needed. She apparently caught on to his confusion and continued: “A lot of people, especially if they aren't native speakers, can't keep up with it. That's pretty normal with really thick accents. In any language.”

He had to smile at that. She was right, after all. “Right. I guess I just don't find it too unfamiliar.”

She narrowed her eyes briefly and then looked like she added two and two together and grinned. “Of course. The Commandos. Downtime between missions you spent in London, right? Lemme guess, frequenting pubs?”

He grinned back at her. “Exactly.”

“I'll bring English beer next time I visit.”

“Visit? You're not staying?” He was surprised. She seemed to be so comfortable around the compound, and now that he knew who she was – the friend Stark had been looking forward to having over – he had been certain she'd be staying on for longer than this.

“Nope. Barring unforeseen complications with the good Colonel, Danish High Command wants me back on base after mission completion. I **am** still enlisted, after all.” Her smirk was not a bitter one as far as he could tell. “I'll be flying home in a few days. A week at the most. Unless of course someone comes up with something specific they need my help with.”

James studied her. It wasn't often people told him much of anything about themselves these days. Either because they were the secretive sorts themselves, or because they knew about his past. This woman, however, seemed to not care at all about any of that. Outside of Shuri no one had really been so free with him, not even Steve. And she would only be here for a short time. He better make the most of it then.

“Danish... that explains the name. But how'd you come by the accent, then?”

She laughed and took another swig before transferring the bottle to her right hand, letting it rest against the back of the couch. “Danish and British forces have worked together a lot during deployments in recent decades,” she readily explained, and as far as he was concerned she didn't need to explain more. It already made sense. She continued, seemingly happy to talk: “One thing is sharing camp facilities, field hospitals, you know, the works, but I also had the pleasure of working with a bunch of Brits, half of whom shared this accent, so it sorta rubbed off.”

He could tell. And it also explained why she used American slang and turn-o-phrase here and there. “How'd ya come to work closely enough, long enough to adopt an accent so fully?” He asked her curiously. He knew how he had come by his many languages and accents, but his were special circumstances to say the least.

She regarded him with that considering look again. “Well, there are limits to what I'm allowed to say, but sometimes shared deployments also mean they pool their special forces together to form extremely specialized teams for highly specific occasions. Not unlike your Commandos back in the War.” She paused. “Or this Avenger Initiative that's been going on here, only without the superhuman factor.”

Before he could stop himself he looked down at her legs. Her right knee tucked in and nestled next to his thigh.

She snorted and chuckled. “I wasn't always like this, you know.”

He looked back up at her face, embarrassed to have been rude – again. “D'you read minds, too? Or was I just really obvious?” He hoped his apologetic joke would make up for his poor manners.

“I think you already know the answer to that question.” Her tone was still amused, but a bit more clipped than before.

“'M sorry,” he mumbled, and looked away pondering whether he should even bother explaining anything. There were good reasons he didn't socialize much; didn't talk much. Silently standing watch was a lot easier in many ways, even if the things he'd been watching out for, waiting for, had been terrible. Images he'd rather forget paraded through his mind, taunting him.

The light touch of a single finger under his chin startled him back to the present. “Hey? Where'd you go? You okay?” As soon as he looked back at her she removed her finger. He found himself lamenting the loss of contact; longing for it to return.

“Yeah, yeah. Just... remembered... stuff.”

“Ah. Yeah. I get it.” The knowing look in her eyes told him she probably did. She gestured with the bottle. “For dealing with a shitty past. May it stay where it belongs, yeah?”

James managed a brief smile and echoed his own words from earlier before he raised his own bottle: “I hear ya.”

They saluted, drank and she said: “I get flashbacks, too. A friend of mine always says: The past is never where you think you left it. Memories, flashbacks, it's like they follow their own rules. Can really sneak up on you.”

She definitely understood. He drank deeply and then turned more towards her, mirroring her position on the couch, letting the arm rest on the back alongside her right. She'd already touched it, clearly wasn't afraid of it. She wouldn't be; not with the kind of limbs she boasted.

She shifted to let him settle into a comfortable position and then let her right leg slide back down to rest on top of his left. He knew she'd only be feeling the pressure or resistance, nothing else, but it was still more contact than **he'd** had with another person in a long time. Excepting that one time Stark had helped his post-nightmare, half-conscious self shower. Vaguely he noted that she sank as deeply into the couch as he did. Right, those legs probably weighed considerably more than her original ones had.

She looked up at him, sought and held his gaze, while she took another swig. Placing her arm back, next to his, she adjusted it so their forearms touched. He didn't see it, 'cause he was staring into her eyes, but she put enough pressure on the arm letting him know what she was doing and also letting him know that she knew what she was doing. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him.

His breath sounded shaky in his own ears when he next opened his mouth to speak. “Thank you,” he said simply.

“What for?” Her brow furrowed in confusion.

He shook his head and huffed lightly. “For not asking.”

“About wha-... oh, right, yeah. I know. I don't like being asked either.” Another of the bitter smiles pulled one side of her mouth up. “People who don't understand, also seldom understand that they don't understand.”

He snorted. “You can say that again.”

They fell silent again. Feeling the pressure of her leg against his own became more and more distracting. Instead he focused on drawing little circles on her skin with the artificial thumb, where it rested just above her elbow. He navigated by sight and kept the touch so light that he couldn't feel it himself. And he was immensely grateful to Shuri for having designed the replacement arm with realistically rounded fingertips instead of the angular ones of the old one.

He had no idea how long they'd been sitting there, both of them just staring into space, when her left hand slid onto his lower leg right in front of her. It was electrifying and 70 years ago Bucky would have known exactly where to guide the situation, but now? Gentle touches had been struck from his playbook a long time ago. Too late he realized he'd stopped moving the fingers resting on her arm. He felt her squeeze his leg lightly, but her hand remained where it was. He relished in it and closed his eyes, wishing for more, longing for it, but not knowing if he could handle it if he got it.

Another squeeze. “Hey, you're far away again.”

James opened his eyes and found her searching gaze. No pity, no condemnation, just... was she flustered? He tried to speak but found no words. His head felt like an entire colony of bees had taken up residence. Couldn't be the alcohol either. That would require considerably more than what he'd had. Serum had done him a bad turn there, not the same as Steve, but bad enough. It had to be her presence.

She smiled at him as if knowing what was going on in head. “Fancy joining me on the roof for a smoke? Tony doesn't want me smoking in here.” Perhaps she did know. James smiled back and nodded.


	7. Communion

Joining her on the roof; fresh air and a smoke. It sounded like a really good idea. It also sounded like an invitation to other things. Or maybe that was just his wishful thinking. Whatever the case, he enjoyed her company and wouldn't turn it down.

Thus James nodded mutely in response to her question. She quickly drained the last of her beer and then stood, leaving the bottle on the table. He followed suit, already longing for her touch again, but not wanting to overstep any boundaries. He'd had his own boundaries so thoroughly demolished over the years, he was no longer entirely sure what could even be considered reasonable.

She dug through the pockets in her sweatpants, but left both them and the socks behind and clacked across the floor to the elevator. He followed behind and grinned to himself, when he couldn't help but notice that her ass had to be her very own original. No piece of metal could move like that and those snug-fitting shorts left nothing to the imagination. He hadn't even realized he'd been wondering how much of her had been replaced.

“Friday? The roof, please. Best not piss off the master of the house.”

“Sure thing, Sergeant Mortensen,” the Irish-sounding AI responded. “I should remind you that leaving empty bottles would also annoy him.”

“I know. I'll head back there for my trousers before I turn in. No worries, and thanks for looking out for me.”

“No problem, Sergeant Mortensen.”

They got in the elevator, standing a few feet apart from each other. “Don't think I'll ever get used to an invisible personality like that,” he commented, relieved to have something neutral to talk about.

“No? I think it's pretty neat. Or... Friday is, anyway.”

“Yeah, but disembodied voices in the walls and things moving on their own. It's straight out of the ghost stories of my day.”

She laughed brightly. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. Okay, I'll concede it takes getting used to. But it makes it a lot less lonely pulling all-nighters in the workshop.”

James raised an eyebrow at her. “You have one at home as well?”

“Unfortunately, no,” she shook her head, then abruptly stilled. “Oh god, I just realized how incredibly pathetic and hermit-like that all sounded. Please forget I said it.”

He smirked at her. “Said what?”

That earned him a mischievous grin and a friendly swat on the arm – his flesh and bone arm – that sent warmth spreading throughout his body. “Precisely, Barnes. Glad we understand each other.”

When the elevator doors opened, he stepped aside to let her exit first. She raised an eyebrow at him. God, he hoped she'd just assume it was old-fashioned manners and not the decidedly less noble intent of ogling that gorgeous, well-toned ass of hers again.

They made their way to the edge of the roof, where she fished a cigarette as well as a lighter out of the packet. She must have caught the question in his eyes. “What? What better way to make sure you have it, where you need it?” She settled one between her lips and held the pack out for him.

He laughed, held his hands up in defeat and took the offered smoke. “Fair point. I'm not criticizing.”

She already knew that, she had just been teasing him, he could tell. There was mirth dancing in her eyes as she lit her cig. Then his breath caught, when she stepped unnecessarily far into his personal space in order to light his. She didn't stay there, but stepped back and turned to look towards the woods and he couldn't decide whether that was a good or a bad thing. Probably good, considering how distracted he was getting by watching how her lips closed around the cigarette. It was even worse, when he noticed how she shaped the wisps of smoke, when she exhaled. He had to force himself to look away.

They stood there for a while, side by side, enjoying the cool breeze and the smell of the sea. Gathering his courage he decided to jump in head first. “Can I ask a question? About your legs, I mean?”

She glanced up at him. Wary. “Sure, go ahead.”

“How much did you have replaced? Just above the knee? Or more?”

She quirked an eyebrow. “What makes you think it's not up to here?” She indicated her waist with a lazy gesture.

He snorted and was about to lay on the innuendo, but he lost his nerve and settled for: “Oh please.”

“No, really. Now you have me curious, Barnes. What gives?” There was a challenge in her eyes, and a slight tension round her mouth, but also that glimmer of amusement.

He decided to take the plunge after all. “One, you're alive.” He paused for effect, waiting for her to prod.

He didn't have to wait long. “I'll concede that point,” she acknowledged with a curt nod. “And two?”

Grasping at what he remembered from the 30s he decided. “Two, ain't no way your bum is anything other than the real deal, sweetheart.” There. Now she would either kill him or...

“Ah ha! So you **were** looking. I wasn't actually sure.” Relief flooded through him, as she grinned at him. Definitely not pissed off. Phew. Though there was something else in her eyes as well...

“Not sure? Honestly, tight shorts like those, I'm not sure how exactly I was supposed not to look. I know I'm a mess, but I'm not dead.”

He sent her his best apologetic grin and she tilted her head in response, looking at him with a discerning stare. Then she huffed and turned her face towards the forest again. “You're not the only mess here, Barnes. Any interested glances I get wither and die once people realize the extent of my replacements.” She paused and drew a deep breath. “They come up to here, by the way. Since you asked so nicely.” She indicated her upper thigh. “And they freak people out. Without fail.”

Yeah, he knew that feeling. Though in his case it wasn't just the arm. Probably.

“Oh and while we're at the wardrobe critique,” she continued, “I'm pretty sure, t-shirts as tight as yours oughtta come with an R-rating.”

It took him a couple of extra seconds to recall the concept of movie-ratings and what they meant. Then he laughed. “Pretty sure this look isn't enough for that. Even if the arm does look gruesome.” Didn't just look it, either. It's what it was. He looked down at the hand. It still surprised him to see the darker metal of Wakandan make, always expecting the silvery plates he had worn for so many decades.

“Bothers you as well, huh?” He looked up. There was understanding in her tone, the heat in her gaze was unmistakable, though.

He nodded. “Guess around you I shouldn't let it. Same boat and all.”

She waved a hand loosely. “Pffft. Shoulda, woulda, coulda.”

Chuckling he could only agree with her. He needed to put things in words, though. There were too many issues that needed addressing. He took a long drag of the cigarette, hoping it would be enough to soothe his nerves. With his serum-enhanced metabolism he should be so lucky. “Alright, Mortensen, real talk. You seem pretty great. But I really have no idea what I'm doing right now. Last time I flirted was roughly 70 years ago and since then I've only been physical with anyone when sparring or intending to kill them.”

She looked surprised and made no secret of looking him over. “I would've thought for sure you'd have had offers. Arm or not.” She huffed and shook her head, looking down as if ashamed. “Don't know why I thought it'd be any different for you than for me.”

It was his turn to do a double-take now. He knew things were different in this century than when he last made the rounds, but... “Wait, you mean, you haven't...”

“Not in the past eight years, no.” She looked side-long at him. “Soooo, we're both touch-starved, amputee cyborgs, who probably have no real idea what we're doing right now. Whaddaya say we head back down and put the remaining beers out of their misery and see what happens?” She exhaled a cloud of smoke, stubbed out the butt on the railing and turned to walk back to the elevator.

He once again followed suit, quickly falling into step by her side. “Just like that?”

“Why not? You started it with the real talk.” She grinned widely at him, putting him right back at ease again. “You have no idea how much I appreciate that honesty. Usually I don't get plain honesty until it's in a look of disgust. And you've already seen what tends to cause that, so...”

They reached the elevator. Instead of standing next to each other, he crowded her up against a wall. She smirked, clearly aware of exactly what he was doing and didn't mind. First things first, though: “Miss Friday? The lounge, please.”

“Of course, Sergeant Barnes.” This time Stark's AI apparently didn't feel a need to comment any further.

He dipped his head down to Mortensen's ear – she wasn't that much shorter than him. He was careful not to touch anywhere. Remembering the effects her proximity had when they sat on the couch, he wasn't entirely sure **he** was ready for that contact again just yet. Instead, he just blew gently on her earlobe and whispered: “We don't see what happens, we decide what happens. And I'm all about making things happen, doll.”

James suddenly became aware of pressure on the arm. Turning his head to see, he wasn't terribly surprised to see Mortensen's right hand clenching the upper arm; and clenching hard, too, judging from the color of her knuckles. He sought her eyes again. Pupils blown wide, lips slightly parted, she stared back. The elevator doors opened to the lounge.

“Oh, you are **on** , Barnes. Let's make shit happen.” She glanced sideways at the lounge, which was still empty. “First, I believe we have a date with the fridge and some more beer.”

He smirked and stepped back from her, forcing her to dislodge her fingers from the bionic bicep. He wasn't quite yet at the point of needing to adjust his pants, but it wouldn't take much more. He just hoped direct skin-to-skin touch wouldn't change that, 'cause that would make things really strange.

They headed to the fridge and he was very pleased to note there was a definite saunter to her step as well. She quickly grabbed the remains of the six-pack, placed the two bottles on the countertop, and turned away to put the cardboard in the trash. He took that moment to flick the bottle caps off. She turned back just in time to see him pop off the second cap.

“Hah! That's handy.” She laughed and grabbed a bottle. “Doubt it'd be popular if I learned to do that with my feet, though.”

“Yeah, might not have the same effect. Or expediency,” he added as an afterthought.

“Or that,” she agreed with him, still chuckling and shuffling around on her toes and studying the bottle in her hand as if actually pondering how she'd open a bottle with her two-toed feet. “Eh, I'd probably just break the entire neck off the bottle. These are not made for precision movements like that.”

He laughed at the mental image that created.

“These feet are made for walking,” she sang – terribly off key – to a tune he didn't recognize, which she realized almost immediately. “Oh, sorry, to me that's an old song. It wouldn't actually be for you. It's from sometime in the 60s, I think. Originally: these boots are made for walking. Have Friday play it for you some time.”

“Uh, I will. Who's the singer?” He asked, genuinely interested in what would have been played in the dance halls while he was out of commission.

“Nancy Sinatra,” she said straight away.

“Sinatra?” That rang several bells. “I know that name from the USO tours. Frank, though, not a Nancy. I think.” He was never 100% sure of his memory.

“That's right. Nancy is Frank's daughter and every bit the singer he was. You'd probably like her music.”

“Really? I'll have to look it up. Miss Friday?”

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?” The disembodied Irishwoman readily responded to his question.

“Next time I'm listening to music, please remind me of the recommendation of Nancy Sinatra.”

“Will do, Sergeant.”

Mortensen smiled knowingly at him, but said nothing further. Okay, so maybe he **was** getting used to the AI, he appreciated that she didn't belabor the point. It was easier to be brave, when talking about safe things like music.

He held out his right hand, palm up. “Wanna do something about that touch-starvation?”

Her gaze immediately found his again. She didn't move. “Damn, Barnes, you don't mince words, huh?”

“Marksman,” he said with a shrug, hoping she'd make a decision quick, before he started feeling **really** stupid.

She stepped closer; much closer than was necessary. It didn't escape his notice that she kept her right hand with the beer, resting on the counter. Good to know he wasn't the only one needing extra support. She held his gaze. “So, what's your mark?” Perfectly in time with the last word, he felt her hand in his. He swallowed thickly, trying in vain to convince himself it was just the beer.

The touch was light. So light he almost drew his hand back, not knowing what to do with this. Then she pressed a little harder. Just a little. He instinctively closed his hand around hers. He saw her swallow. At least he wasn't the only one. He slid his thumb over the back of her hand and dragged his fingertips across her palm. Thick callouses met his own in places. This was a hand accustomed to using heavy tools and machinery. He felt her fingertips ghost over his palm, resting not on the callouses but the raised scar in the middle of it. He winced as the memory of a handler nailing his hand to a table with a combat knife surfaced.

“Sorry,” she whispered, eyes still locked on his. Her fingers moved elsewhere. Along his fingers, until only their tips were touching. He didn't want to lose that connection.

James curled his fingers around hers in an attempt to maintain their fleeting contact. Neither of them had bolted yet. He counted that as a win. She kept her composure way better than he did, but she had friends and was probably semi-accustomed to some form of physical contact. He was fairly certain she'd only been talking about intimacy, when she said touch-starved. Unlike him.

A deep breath and he attempted to form words again. “'M not sure this is the way to go.”

Raised eyebrows, questioning eyes.

“I mean, it's nice. And kinda... intense, but also... a bit much?” He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she was still looking at him, only now there was concern in the blue gaze fixed on his. He struggled to explain, but ended up with an suggestion instead. “Can we just... rip the band-aid off?”

She frowned. “I'm not opposed to the idea. What are you suggesting?”

He looked at her; her lips especially. Go for it, Barnes. “Would you mind terribly, if I just kissed you?”

* * * * *

“This has been wonderful, Tony,” Pepper said, as she and Rhodey walked with him to his rooms for a bit of after-party debriefing. It had gotten really late, and though many had slipped off home or to bed earlier, the three of them had had to stay to the bitter end. “I'm really happy about this new direction of yours.”

Rhodey let himself fall into a couch with an exhausted groan. “Can't say I'm complaining either. I gotta admit, I didn't really believe it until I woke up and could wriggle my toes.” He toed off his shoes and plonked his feet on the table just to demonstrate.

“Told you she was good for it.” Tony smirked at them both and went to pour drinks for all of them. They'd all stayed sober all night. Rhodey, because he hadn't yet regained enough strength in his legs to want to risk being wobbly from alcohol, Pepper and himself because they had been discussing business and funding opportunities with multiple potential business partners all night, civilian as well as military. Now they could all relax. Finally.

“I'm proud of you, Tony. Getting Stark Industries into medical tech as more than just a minor branch is going to be great. Consumer electronics and industrial robotics don't really improve people's lives. But this? This is something greater and I love it. We're turning a corner here.” Pepper's enthusiasm for the running of his company never ceased to amaze him. He had always hated all the hassle and the need to rub shoulders with deeply boring people, whereas she seemed to thrive on the subtle social manipulation of people's perceptions, skillfully employed to secure business opportunities and permits. He would never ever regret making her his CEO, even if he did miss her as his PA.

He agreed with her enthusiasm for this new venture and said as much. One day he might even have made up for all the destruction his company had been complicit in in years past. Maybe. In another century or so.

Rhodey, too, agreed from his seat on the couch. Tony and Pepper both converged on him, Tony setting drinks before them. He knew their preferences, no need to ask. Hadn't for years.

It was Pepper who asked: “What about BARF? Any chance that it's going to be more than just experimental within a year or two?”

“I don't know,” Tony admitted. “I'm not really sure how to go about setting up a clinical trial. Success criteria in psychiatric care are notoriously hard to measure. It helped me and it seems to also be helping Barnes these days. That's all I've got.”

Before he could continue, Rhodey asked: “And how are things working out between you?”

Tony really wanted Pepper to brush that off and start talking business and tech development he could get to work on, but she just turned to him with a look he knew so very well. She was every bit as interested in the answer as Rhodey was. He shrugged. “Seems to be working okay.”

“Tony...” Pepper sighed.

“You're deflecting again,” Rhodey completed the thought they'd obviously shared. This was why it was a bother when people knew him too well.

He sighed and resigned himself to the only possible outcome of the conversation. “It's working out surprisingly okay, really. He's polite, I'm polite. We even share meals some days.”

“That's good to know, Tones, but how are you doing? I mean, really. It's gotta be weird.”

Tony snorted good-naturedly at Rhodey's statement. “Not as weird as I expected. He's actually... strangely pleasant company, when we're not talking about murder and torture.”

“Ugh,” Pepper voiced her disgust. “I wish you had more non-violent people in your life, Tony.”

“Hey, it's not like he wanted any of it. No one ever asked him.” He found himself defending Barnes before having thought it through.

Rhodey, being Rhodey, of course picked up on that. “You like him.” His friend grinned wider and wider. “You actually like him. Wow. Who are you and what have you done with my friend?”

Tony grunted. “Very funny.” Pepper's lip twitched, but she said nothing. Just kept looking at him with a faint glimmer of concern behind her observant eyes. “None of it was his fault, okay?”

“Damn. Not sure I could be around him, if I was in your shoes. You gotta be the most forgiving man I know.” Tony looked sharply at him, wondering if he knew he'd turned Tony's own words around on him. He probably didn't. He was wrong anyway.

“I haven't forgiven those responsible. Its just that the ones responsible don't number Barnes among them, alright? Think about it. He actually knew Howard and was forced to kill him. Can't be easy having to live with that. So there's nothing to forgive in his case.” He shrugged and hoped they could close the subject. He didn't hold high hopes, though. Not with these two.

“That poor, poor man,” Pepper lamented. “Even if he does manage to get himself back, how is he going to handle it all?”

Tony gestured helplessly. “One day at a time, I guess. Right now he's not too optimistic, though. He's remembered some pretty discouraging stuff.”

“Really?” Rhodey asked drily. “More discouraging than having been an unwilling assassin for decades? Or you've learned new facts about his condition?”

Pepper perked up at that, her displeasure with all the violence and dismay for Barnes' fate quickly pushed aside at the prospect of learning something interesting.

Tony nodded slowly, unsure if they'd even take him seriously. “Hypnosis.”

“Hypnosis?!” Rhodey repeated. “Like when you count down from three and snap your fingers, he'll think he's a chicken? I find that hard to believe.”

It was only then it occurred to Tony how exactly like that it actually was. “No, not like that, platypus, don't be silly. We're not in Vegas. You recite nine **words** and then he'll think he's a Soviet assassin. There's no snapping of any fingers.” He paused briefly to recall how Barnes had broken two of his own fingers during a nightmare weeks ago. As well as to entertain a random thought. “Unless of course you order **him** to snap someone's fingers. That wouldn't be very nice, though, would it?”

Silence reigned in his quarters for all of six seconds. Rhodey spoke first: “That... makes a surprising amount of sense all of a sudden. All things considered.”

Pepper nodded. “So do we need to look for hypnotists to counter it?” Pragmatic as always. Tony loved that about her.

“Not sure I'd wanna see another one of those if it were me,” Rhodey said looking faintly ill. Tony couldn't blame him.

“No, me neither,” Pepper readily agreed.

“Nor does he,” Tony confirmed.

“And really, how do you even tell the charlatans from the real deal?” Rhodey asked. “I mean, a charlatan's just gonna leave with a great story he'll tell the media. A real one... how do you even tell if someone like that can be trusted? How do you trust yourself around someone whose job it is to manipulate people?”

Pepper coughed politely. “That actually covers a lot of professions, Jim. But in all seriousness, some psychologists use hypnotherapy to help their patients unlock emotions they've conditioned themselves to no longer feel.”

“Really?” Tony and Rhodey spoke at the same time.

“Sure. I have a friend from way back in high school, whose parents were so strict with her that she learned to never show anger. And as a way of protecting itself her mind locked that feeling away, so she never even felt it and so didn't have to work on hiding it. She ended up being quite the mess, but then she found a psychologist, who figured out that part of her natural range of emotions was locked away. They used hypnotherapy to put her back in touch with it. Worked wonders. Mind, she's still a bit repressed, but she's doing so much better.”

“Wow, I didn't even know that was a thing,” Rhodey admitted.

Pepper laughed. “Neither did I until she told me about it. I would have suspected quackery out of Vegas, too, but apparently there's a legitimate method for using it. Do you want me to look into it for you, Tony? Obviously my friend's therapist is genuine, so that's a place to start looking for the right match.”

Tony smiled. Pepper could be ever so apprehensive about something, but she was always on board with discussing solutions to problems. God he loved her still. “Barnes isn't keen on meeting with any kind of clinician after these latest memories resurfaced. He seemed perfectly honest, when he admitted that he couldn't guarantee their safety around him. He doesn't want more on his conscience and I don't blame him.”

Rhodey shook his head. “No. I get it. If he's out of it, there's no telling how he'll react to someone who reminds him of whoever did these things to him.”

Tony caught Pepper's eyes and he knew he must look guilty, because she smiled at him and shook her head slightly. Activating his suits he'd almost killed her in his sleep. And she'd forgiven him. And not long after he'd almost killed all of humanity in his paranoid desire to protect everyone. Paranoia was a force to be reckoned with and when Barnes or the Soldier deemed his own to be a threat, they should take it seriously.

“So not an option for now. But maybe later,” Pepper concluded. “So what now?”

“I do actually have an idea... since Rigger is here anyway,” Tony began.

“Come on, Tony. By the sound of it, this will require a bit more than just shared experiences,” Rhodey's protest was reasonable, but his dataset incomplete.

“I know,” he acknowledged. “I don't mean for her to be the one to help him. Well, they might make friends and god knows he needs some of those as well. But no, Rigger's friend, Liz. You remember her, right? Pretty sure she must have been there for that mission you joined in Ukraine two months ago.”

Rhodey's brow furrowed in thought and Pepper grabbed a tablet from the table. Tony knew she'd be pulling up every piece of information they had on the woman. Tony also knew that would turn out to be surprisingly little.

“Yeah, yeah, I remember her. Short, built like a super soldier and damned sharp, too. You think she can help?”

Pepper, reading and listening at the same time, nodded while Tony spoke. “I know you know parts of the story behind Rigger's enhancements.”

“Oh yeah,” Rhodey nodded. “I remember. Nasty business, that.”

“The reports don't really cover how much of a mess she was.”

Pepper laughed; a dark, hollow sound that told them exactly how well she remembered. “Reports didn't cover how much of a mess **you** were, Tony.”

He was definitely not talking about that now. “Well no, but here's the thing. Rigger told me she probably wouldn't be here today if not for Liz. And I didn't think much of that statement the first time, I mean, friends help each other out, right? Like you were both there for me. But as it turns out, Liz did way more than that. There's no official information on what she does or whether she has any formal education. I once asked her if she was the resident therapist, which she denied, but she could be one. I swear.”

“And you want her to come have a talk with Barnes...” Rhodey nodded his own quiet approval.

“It's the best idea I can come up with. She can be trusted and she won't be afraid of him. And she'll see him for who he is, which is probably what he needs the most right now.”

“I think it's a good idea, Tony. And this way you can even keep her presence here away from prying government eyes and keep it strictly under the Accords. Speaking of your charges: Have you given any thought to the suggestions I sent you about possible places for Miss Maximoff to study?” She had put the tablet back down and was nursing her drink again.

He hadn't. Fixing Rhodey's spine had taken up all of his attention. “Uh no? I just passed them along to her. I figured she would get in touch with you if any of them seemed like a good fit.”

Pepper sighed, pressing her lips together. “Tony, you know she won't do that. I honestly think she's a little bit afraid of me.”

Rhodey barely managed to conceal a grin behind his drink. Tony didn't get the joke. Anyone in their right mind would be afraid of Pepper. Or at least have a healthy amount of respect for all the ways in which she could put you in a grave without so much as breaking stride.

“Go on and laugh, Jim, I mean it. I don't know why, but she seemed to shrink every time I came near her during the party. It was very strange.”

Rhodey laughed openly now. “Oh for the love of...” he wheezed. “Are you two really so dense?”

“She knows I'm Tony's CEO, but why would that make her afraid of me?”

Tony decided to help her out. “Pep, you're one of the most influential people on this planet. Anyone who isn't at least a little bit afraid of you isn't aware of what you're capable of.”

Pepper for her part looked horrified. “But I don't hurt people! Stark Industries doesn't even hurt people anymore. No weapons production, remember.”

“No, but you could if you wanted to. And that's enough.”

“But I'd never!”

Rhodey cleared his throat. “Yeah. Never. Except for that one time with Extremis and Killian.”

She looked dismayed at the reminder. Her voice was quiet and sad when she spoke. “I hated that, but I had to. He would've killed Tony.”

“Exactly! And Wanda fought and hurt Tony, so it's only natural she's wary around you.”

That didn't add up. “Wanda doesn't know what happened with Killian,” Tony protested. There was no way she'd know those details of Pepper's involvement. Absolutely none.

Rhodey shook his head, disbelief written plainly on his features. “For a pair of geniuses you really are dense sometimes. She doesn't **need** to know. Anyone who sees the two of you come within 50 yards of each other can tell how protective you are. Both of you. Still. Oh man, I can't believe I need to point this out to you.”

Tony met Pepper's eyes across the table. They both knew he was right. But Pepper's decision had been good and healthy, and Tony had no right to try and change her mind about protecting herself. No right at all. So he wouldn't. He swallowed his pain. Like always. Her safety was more important than his selfish desires.

“Anyway!” Tony decided to interrupt the moment before it became too awkward. Or painful. “If we're lucky, I might even convince Wanda to talk to Liz as well. I mean if she's here anyway. That is if I can get Liz on board with this. I'm gonna talk to Riggs about it tomorrow, now that we've finished the work she actually came here for.” He winked at Rhodey, who tipped his head and raised his drink.

“And am I glad she did. I really appreciate it, Tony.”

“Don't mention it.”

Rhodey rolled his eyes. “I think you might be on to something, though. That mission. Rigger led the mission, but Liz ran the post-op debrief. I didn't think much of it at the time. Just assumed it was the usual CO-XO task division, but now that you got me thinking... yeah. Even if she can't do all of it, she can probably get a lot further than the rest of us. She's something, alright.”

“That's my thought exactly,” Tony nearly crowed feeling very much vindicated.

“And even better,” Rhodey continued with a laugh. “No one's gonna mistake her for a clinician of any kind.”

He and Tony shared a hearty laugh that Pepper couldn't join in on having never met the woman in question. “You'll understand, when you meet her, Pep,” Tony assured her.

“Ahh much as I like hanging out like this – like old times – I am just about ready to drop,” Rhodey admitted. He placed his empty glass on the table and picked up his shoes. “I'm gonna go crash in my quarters and enjoy not having to remove a set of braces first. Goodnight, you two.”

He got up and walked towards the door. His legs were a little bit unstable, but not enough to worry Tony. Just muscle fatigue. Now that he could use his own muscles directly again, he had quite the physio-rehab program ahead of him. Again. But he'd be alright and that's what mattered.

“Goodnight, Jim. It's been a pleasure. We should do this more often.”

“Yeah, listen to the lady,” Tony chimed in with fervor. “Believe me, everything is better if you just do what she says.”

Rhodey grinned at him over his shoulder. “I'll take your word for it. Maybe you should, too.”

“Oh hey now, that's a low blow. Weren't you going to bed?” Tony couldn't keep a straight face and laughed.

“Oh yes. You kids behave.” He was still chuckling, when the door closed behind him, leaving Tony and Pepper to stare at each other.

Silenced reigned. Long enough for Tony to get uncomfortable. He was just about to say something, when Pepper beat him to it. She knew him too well.

“You've changed, Tony.”

“No, I'm pretty sure I'm still me.”

She smiled and shook her head. All the things they never needed to say hung between them. As well as all the things he should have said a long time ago. Her soft smile never faltered. “You delegate. I like it.”

“Pffft.” He waved it off and swallowed the last of his drink. “Want another?”

“Yes, please.” He got up and she held her glass out for him to take as he walked to the liquor cabinet. Her fingers brushed against his before she let go. Was there a chance? No. Had to be a coincidence. He had no right to mess up her life again. She couldn't possibly want that.

Mixing their drinks, he heard her move around. When he turned, she was sitting in the couch patting the spot next to her. Perhaps... he hadn't actually thought this far. He had never expected to get this far. Proving himself worthy of her was an endeavor he'd decided to undertake, fully convinced it couldn't be done; that he'd had his chance and blown it. This was not the way things worked. People left him, they never came back. No, she was probably just... he didn't know, but he did sit down, where she indicated.

She took her drink and turned slightly towards him. “Tony how are you really doing?”

He sighed. There was no escaping this one. She knew him too well and would just proceed to corner him in new and creative ways until she got her answer. He studied his drink for a long time. It wasn't too long ago he'd have downed several of them in order to avoid having to answer questions. “I'm trying to repair the damage I caused. It might be a while yet, before there's enough of a stable base for me to drop the rope.”

“You didn't cause all the damage by yourself, you know.” Sweet, amazing, loyal Pepper, who always had his back even when he messed up.

“Depends on who's telling the story.”

“The media here sound pretty certain Captain America is the one to mess up and betray his country and flee the consequences.”

He winced. That was on him. He'd forced Steve's hand and made it all necessary. “I tore the Avengers apart, Pep. I'm trying to rebuild something, anything, because until I do – or someone does – we're defenseless against whatever's out there.” He pointed up.

He felt more than saw the movement as she nodded. “And that's why I'm glad to see you delegate. Establishing contact and cooperation with Rigger's European team. When they needed an airborne heavy hitter you sent Jim rather than go yourself. Twice now. You're already dropping the rope, little by little, and I'm happy to see it, because you seem happier.”

Tony couldn't help but smile. He was. Happier. “Wanda doesn't seem to hate me anymore, either, even if she still makes **me** nervous,” he added. “Not so sure about Clint and Steve, though.”

“Then they don't matter, Tony.” She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair.

“Steve does,” he disagreed. “He's the one who can bring a team together. And we need a unifying factor. If we don't have that, if we're scattered like this, then what good are we?”

“Well, you seem to be doing a lot of good work for Sergeant Barnes, even if you can't do all of it yourself. Delegation, Tony. It's a good thing. And I can tell you're making quite a bit of a difference for the Parker-boy. He's gaining confidence. It's good.”

He turned to her in surprise. “You've been keeping up with him as well?”

“Of course. He's officially an intern with SI, so I needed to make sure there was a papertrail to cover your idea. And since he's obviously a genius, I've taken a personal interest. He'll do great things, Tony. I'm sure of it. And he really looks up to you.”

He snorted and hung his head. “He really shouldn't. My track record isn't something to be envied.”

“But how could he not? You've done a lot for him. Does he know about all the extra features in his suit?”

“Not yet. They'll unlock, when he's ready for it, that is, when I unlock them because he's ready.” He was still having second thoughts about giving the kid a suit with all those extra features. Even if access to them was restricted. The reason he'd done it, was because he'd be able to unlock them to save the kid's life in the field. If that ever became necessary, it'd be too late if he had to install them first.

“And before you've given him access to the full potential of his suit, you're already building him a new and even better one. Tony, you're not fooling anyone. You believe in him. And he feels that, I promise you.”

He really hoped she was right. He knew what it was like to not have anyone believe in you. Add to that having to deal with the kinds of powers the kid had suddenly developed, Peter would definitely need someone to have faith in him. If that someone happened to be him, he could do that, even from semi-retirement.

“Tony, I can hear you thinking.”

“Huh, yeah. Just... pondering everything. I tried to retire after Ultron. I even managed to stay retired for just over a year. I'm kinda hoping this...” He made a circular gesture intending to indicate the Compound. “...will eventually earn me a second attempt at that retirement. At least from the hero-business. I don't think I could lay off inventing, even if I tried.”

That fond smile was one he had missed having turned in his direction. He would pay to be able to stay in that ray of sunshine. “I think that sounds like a very good idea.”

Tony swallowed. He wasn't sure what the right thing to do was. He knew what he wanted to do. Try once more to sweep Pepper off her feet, but until he was well and truly out of the hero-business, he couldn't allow himself to do so. She deserved better, he needed to deflect. “Well, you know what they say: If at first you don't succeed, try at least twice more to make your failure statistically significant.” He delivered it with his habitual smirk.

She laughed and shook her head lightly. “And you have a cabin waiting for you.”

How did she know about that? He hadn't intended to tell her until he'd found the courage to make another attempt. He did his best not to freeze up. “A cottage, really, a bit too large to really be a cabin.”

“Probably, yes. The real question is, do you want me to start moving your things there? And should we start thinking of other uses for the Tower?”

“You're not me PA anymore, Pep. You don't need to worry about it.”

“I know, but here we are.”

He couldn't ignore it anymore. She was dropping hints all over the place and he felt as nervous as a teenager. No, scratch that, he'd never been that nervous even as a teen. He swallowed and decided to go for it. “I'll probably be ready to move my things there if you are as well.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. Shit. That hadn't been what she was angling for. “Tony...!”

“Or you know, we could start with a weekend get-away sometime soon? When I've made sure everyone here is taken care of?”

She was still surprised. “I... yes, I think the weekend get-away is the better place to start.”

Okay. Okay. Just don't move too fast. He was still in the game. He got this. His heart was pounding in his chest. “Great. That's settled then. Uhhh two weeks from now? Or do you need longer to clear your schedule? Where would you like to go?” Her smile was widening as he rambled.

“How about I get back to you on that? I need to make sure everything is handled as well, but we are definitely doing this, Tony.”

All was not lost. All was not lost. He wanted to dance. They would need to go someplace, where he could take her dancing. Yes, dancing was definitely in the cards. “That's good. Very good. Can I at least take you out to dinner later this week? Just the two of us and no talking business?”

“You can. That's a date.”

When she leaned in and kissed him lightly – not on the cheek, like she would always do when they met – but directly on the lips, he was so amazed, he almost forgot to kiss her back. Almost. Never let it be said Tony Stark couldn't think on his feet.

They talked for a long time, they had a lot of ground to cover after all. And even if much of it was also business it was good. So, so good. Much later his spirits were significantly lifted, when she told him goodnight and headed home, determined to take things at a sensible pace. Sensible. How was he supposed to be sensible, when Pepper had marched back into his life?

He definitely felt like dancing and not at all like sleeping. Sleepless nights for this reason he could accept, though. Completely acceptable. Absolutely.


	8. Marks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Smut - fully consensual, but with flashbacks and references to previous instances of non-consensual unpleasantness.  
> This chapter isn't essential for the plot, so if you prefer to avoid the above, you will miss out on absolutely nothing. I will make sure the next chapter gets everyone up to speed on all things essential.  
> Otherwise: enjoy!

He looked at her; her lips especially. Go for it, Barnes. “Would you mind terribly, if I just kissed you?”

A smile turned into a grin and became a snigger. “Guess that answers my question about your mark.” Again he found amusement in her eyes. This time he was fairly sure he also saw a brief flash of something akin to uncertainty, before she continued: “Go ahead.”

Let it never be said that James “Bucky” Barnes needed to be told twice. With two fingers he gently guided her chin up as he dipped in for a kiss. Her lips were chapped and she smelled faintly of smoke and engine oil. She was hesitant at first. They were both out of practice even if she seemed to be a lot more comfortable with touch than him. Not that it was saying much.

Then he let his fingers slide along her jaw, to below her ear. Caressing the edge of her ear with his thumb he cupped her head, making sure it would still be easy for her to pull away. Her hand was back on the arm. He didn't need to look this time, he had a pretty good idea, what it would look like.

Her lips pushed against his with a little more force and then she pulled away. Not from his hand, though. He let it slide down her shoulder and arm. Her eyes were dark as they sought his again. “Okay, sniper's aim, I'll give you that, Barnes. This was the right idea.”

He smirked, trying not to be overwhelmed.

“Couch, now.” She pushed gently on his right shoulder, and he couldn't help but grin as he turned to lead the way. She followed immediately behind him, her steps clicking against the floor.

Once there he turned to her to see if she was going to take the initiative for whatever came next. He'd barely turned around when she pushed him down on the couch and followed in one smooth motion to straddle him. Yeah, okay, he was fine with that. He grinned up at her as he let his hands settle on her waist.

She leaned back a little, crossed her arms in front of her, grabbed the hem of her top and pulled it over her head. Giving him a full view of her abdomen.

“Whoah!” He couldn't help it. He'd guessed she was in good shape, but he had not expected that kind of defined muscle on a woman. It was... new.

She snorted and he looked up at her. “Don't wanna talk about it.”

“Huh? I like it.” And he meant it.

She looked at him oddly. “You're not thinking of the scar...”

What scar...? He hadn't noticed. Looked down again. Oh. That one. There was a long scar running diagonally across her abdomen. He shrugged. “Tell me about it some other time. I meant this.” He ran his hands up her sides, down her back, over her ass – and yup, it was every bit as firm as he'd guessed – and back to the front. So different from the dames he'd gone with before the war. And during. This was new and exiting and he loved every bit of it. No way would he let her doubt that. He leaned forward, pushing her back and kissed and nipped a wet trail from her belly button up to the hem of her sports bra. He looked up at her, about to ask for permission to shred it.

She was way ahead of him, and quickly divested herself of the offending garment. He did **not** mind the view of her tits, when she stretched her arms above her head. He caught a nipple in his mouth, eliciting a small gasp from her. He laved and sucked at it, until it stood proudly at attention for him. He switched to the other, when he felt her fingers threading through his hair. Pushing him against her. Not one to deny a woman her pleasure he paid every attention he could think of.

That was until her fingers found the gnarly scars of electrical burns on his scalp and started tracing them. He pulled back a little and muttered quietly: “No. Not there. Not now.” He did **not** need reminders of how they got there.

Her hands stilled. She was short of breath when she spoke. “Okay. Not touching your scalp. Hair still okay?”

He nodded, not really sure he had words for the relief and gratitude. She curled over him and placed a gentle kiss on top of his head. He got the message, though it nearly drowned in all of the loveliness she shoved in his face. As he continued worshiping her breasts, she kept carding her fingers through his hair, not once touching the skin beneath. The consideration alone made him dizzier than he remembered anything else doing.

Her gasps turned to little moans; a sound he hadn't even known he'd been longing to hear. Then she pushed slightly away from him. He barely had time to look up at her before she reached for the hem of his t-shirt. “Raise 'em.”

He did as she ordered and let her pull the shirt over his head, hopeful that it would hide how nervous he was about letting her see him in all his scarred misery. She discarded his shirt with a toss over his shoulder. He let his hands roam back to settle at her waist. She frowned slightly as her gaze fell upon the scarring where the arm was attached.

When she found his eyes again, he expected her questions. “I take it that's off limits?” But not that one.

“I, uhhh, dunno. Actually.”

She nodded. “That's fair. You just let me know if you feel like finding out. I know my attachment points are mad sensitive, so I get it.”

That was it. Just like that. And then she leaned in to kiss him like he wasn't a broken patchwork of spare parts, but rather just a man. He was still a bit stunned by the whole thing, which would definitely be his excuse for being startled, when he felt her tongue tracing his lips. He welcomed it, and savored the taste of her. Smoke and beer, probably not so different from himself. Her hands found his shoulders and pushed him back down on the couch as she scooted forward, closer and deepened the kiss. He wanted more. Longed for it.

His scalp burned, his arms strained, jaw clenched against the pain. He heard that word again. Zhelaniye. No. No. No. Zhelaniye. Not now.

He tried to pry his eyes open, just a slit. A face right before him.

“What? Zhelaniye?”

A jolt of electricity went through him. He grunted, tried not to scream. Clenched his jaw harder.

A gentle touch along his jawline confused him.

“Barnes? Come back to me. Barnes.”

That wasn't his name. He had no name. He was just an asset. The Asset. He was the Soldier.

“Barnes. Flashbacks are pretty normal. At least for people like us.”

He didn't recognize the voice. Female. Talking softly. His handlers never spoke softly to him.

“I want you to relax your jaw.” There was that gentle touch along his jaw again. “Come on,” the voice coaxed. “That's it. Relax. Don't want you cracking your teeth.”

Confused, he felt around his mouth with his tongue. No bite guard. They always gave him one.

“I want you to open your eyes. Can you do that for me?”

He did so. The woman's face was very close to his own. Blue eyes. Dark eyebrows. No hair. She smelled of smoke and oil. And was... very nude up top. He looked further down. She didn't seem to mind. His arms and hands were not secured in restraints. They were clenching her legs; her thighs. Hard. She didn't seem to mind. They were on a couch.

He looked back up at her and let go as if burned. Would have bolted, too, if not for the fact that he would have had to throw her. He didn't know if that was allowed.

“Hey, hey, easy. It's okay. You're safe. Breathe with me. Come on. In...” she breathed in, “... and out.”

He hadn't been aware he was hyperventilating. His foggy mind somehow deducted that the nude woman was talking sense.

“Breathe with me. Come on.”

He did. For a while. He felt his system calm down again.

“Barnes, you with me again?”

He nodded mutely.

“Good. Is it okay for me to give you a hug?”

Why would she want to hug him? He didn't understand, but he nodded again. When had he last been hugged? He remembered a man. Tall and blonde.

She snaked her arms under his. Awkward considering she was straddling his thighs and had to curl into him. Then she simply leaned into him and rested her upper body against his, tucking her head into the crook of his shoulder – his left shoulder no less – and breathed lightly on his neck. Her hands made their way behind his back. When she slowly increased the pressure and squeezed it felt right to fold his own arms around her.

He had no idea how long they sat like that. The tight hold slowly forced his heart rate to even out. His nose was resting against the skin of her shoulder, and when he moved to sniff at her neck she smelled like sex. Then everything that went before the flashback came flooding back to him.

“No, no, don't tense up. I'm not letting you go. It's okay. You're okay, I'm okay, everything's okay,” she muttered into his neck, while she managed to keep her breathing steady. “Feel free to keep your arms around me. I think you still need the grounding.”

“I'm sorry,” he choked out, feeling hoarse. But he let his arms remain where they were as per her orders.

“Don't be. We both knew there was a risk. It was probably only a question of which one of us would have a panic attack or flashback first. Congratulations, you won that race.”

He snorted. “Doesn't really feel right to joke about it. Bit of a mood killer.”

That made her sit up, so she could look him in the eye again. He found it difficult to meet her gaze, but she was smiling gently at him.

“Moods can be recreated, Barnes. At least now I know to not push on both your shoulders at the same time. I think that might have been what triggered you.” She paused. “Timing fits anyway.”

“I'm sorry,” he said again.

“Don't be,” she repeated. “Dammit, Barnes. We both have baggage. I've served for 15 years now. It's not like PTSD is unknown to me.”

He blinked. Right. “But having your sex life, uhhh...”

“What sex life?” She interrupted him. “Like I said before: eight bloody years with nothing of the sort. There's not a goddamn thing to interrupt ever. Until now. And I promise you it could just as well have been me.”

He knew he must have looked skeptical, because she leaned further back and wiped a hand over her face and back over her scalp. “Okay, I don't know what would convince you. You choose: one of the many stories I expect might give me flashbacks here? Or the most intense kiss I can muster at my current lack of practice to convince you that I'm still into making this work?”

Weighing the pros and cons didn't take him long. Stories wouldn't do anything but kill the mood even further. He could hardly believe she was still interested in this; in him. “I'll take that kiss then.”

She grinned. “I was hoping you'd say that.” She leaned in, then, one hand in the middle of his chest and the other gently caressing his face, tickling the scruff he would have done something about, had he known he'd be keeping this kind of company. Neither hand came anywhere near his shoulders. Soft, hot breath on his cheek. A small pleased hum escaped her as he let his hands roam again. Encouraged, he reached around a grabbed her ass. He felt her smile against the skin at the corner of his mouth and then she made good on the promised kiss. It was searing. He could have sworn her lips had not been that hot before, but that made no sense.

Once again her tongue requested entry and he allowed it. Out of practice or not, the heat in her kiss left him no lingering doubts of her intent. He wasn't sure which of them moaned. Maybe both. And then she was making little delicious movements with her hips grinding against his erection. His mind might be a mess, but his body clearly knew what was going on. He decided to follow its lead. Partially anyway. He slid his hands back to her sides. Up. Along her arms. Moved her hand from his chest and up to his shoulder.

She pulled back from him. Breathing hard, she looked at him, questioning. “There's more to it. I'm good,” he assured her.

“Right, then.” Flashing him a cheeky smile she dipped back in to lock lips with him again. This time he was definitely the one letting out a groan. She chuckled against his mouth. One hand snaked up and lodged in his hair. She had a solid grip. “This okay?” She breathed against his lips.

He nodded as much as her grip in his hair allowed. “Mm hm.” He slid his right hand down her left thigh and let the left push on her side, looking to get horizontal on the couch, right about now.

An absolutely delicious sounding gasp, then a controlled yield, as she let him push her sideways off his thighs down onto the couch. He twisted between her legs, never allowing their lips to part, following her slide down and sideways.

Too late he realized he'd chosen the wrong side. This position would only work if he leaned on his right hand... huh, good thing she didn't seem to mind the arm. He didn't have more time to think about it, he didn't even have time to initiate anything, before he felt her stiffen beneath him. Shit.

He pulled back. Looked at her face. Her pupils were still blown wide but completely unfocused and all of a sudden the reek of fear mingled with the scent of her arousal. He lifted his weight off her body and gently cupped her cheek with his right hand, awkward positioning be damned. “Hey, hey, your turn now. You still with me? Hey, you in there?” He gently patted her cheek. Her body was tense as a strung bow and she was holding her breath.

Slowly her eyes found his. Blinked once. Twice. Three times. They focused and there seemed to be recognition there. Her exhalation was nearly explosive, and she sucked in a loud lungful, the apology evident in her expression.

“Hey,” he said, remembering her own words, “it's okay. You're safe. What's happening?”

She closed her eyes and scrunched up her face. “I... can't be on my back. Not right now,” she choked out.

That was fixable. Easily so. He immediately sat back up and pulled her up with him. No longer tensed up, she had almost made it to ragdoll as she sagged against him, now seated in his lap. She wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him, hiding her face once again in the crook of his shoulder.

“Shit,” she mumbled. “My turn to be sorry, I guess.”

He smiled, though he knew she couldn't see it and gently caressed her back. Long, slow strokes, up and down. Yeah, her breath soon found the rhythm he let his hands guide her to. Good. She shivered again.

“Damn. I might've known,” she lamented, still clinging to him.

“Don't worry about it, doll. Same boat and all, like you said. We'll figure it out.” This was already far more skin to skin contact than either of them had had for a long time, and despite her episode and whatever it was about – he had to make a conscious effort to not imagine anything, obvious though it was – she was still hanging on to him.

He heard her draw breath to speak. “Shit, Barnes, what now? I'm not keen on getting on my back again. That was a few more visuals than I think I can deal with in 5 minutes.”

Leaning further back, he held her upper arms so he could see her face. She looked shaken but otherwise present and mostly all right. “Well, there's a wall right over there...?”

“A wa-... hah, I like the way you think.” She grinned wickedly. Yeah, she was definitely all right.

He didn't want to push her though. “You sure?”

“Heh, we're not playing at romance here. Wall's good with me if it gets me more of this.” She smirked, dragged a finger down his chest and wriggled to get her feet under her. Though shaken she was clearly of a mind to continue. He did some quick math and figured if she'd served for fifteen years, she was definitely old enough to make decisions for herself. In fact, with all the time he'd spent in suspended animation, she might actually be older than him. Yeah, he had no business second-guessing **her** decisions.

Shaking his head in amusement he grabbed a firmer hold of her ass and pulled her close. She caught on and laughed lightly, then wrapped her legs around his waist. James got to his feet. He was glad he was prepared for her weighing a great deal more than her size would let on, else he might have lost his balance. He was also very thankful for his enhanced strength. It made things a lot easier. It did not do anything, however, to protect him from the effects of the lascivious things she did with her lips and tongue to his neck and shoulder, while he attempted to get them to the agreed-upon wall.

She bit him. On the shoulder. Lightly at first. It made him stumble and groan. Then she bit harder, and he was so very relieved to be near that wall. He leaned her against it and leaned heavily into her.

“Easy, doll. I want this to last,” he managed to choke out hardly even recognizing his own voice.

No response was awarded him. She did ease back on the teeth, though, and redoubled her efforts to find every single sensitive spot along his neck. All of a sudden he wasn't so sure **that** was making it any easier on him. Only one way to go, then.

He patted her hip. “Down, girl.”

She laughed brightly, but did do as he requested, unhooking her ankles from behind his back and placing her feet back on the floor. He sank to his knees before her, hooking his fingers in the waist of her shorts. Wanting to be sure, he sought her eyes. They never made eye contact, because her own hands were soon on his pushing hands as well as shorts down. Good enough for him.

She hadn't lied about how high her prosthetics reached, he saw, as he peeled her shorts off. She stepped out of them and he tossed them aside. The view was spectacular from this angle, light brown curls right in front of his face. Sensitive, she'd called the attachment points, so he rested his forearms on her thighs and let his fingers trace the skin there. She hadn't given the impression that it was bothering her like his did him, but he was nonetheless very focused on her face. They didn't need to add any further mood killers, after all. Her eyes were closed, and he felt her shiver, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wall behind her, finding none.

“Okay?” He needed to know.

She nodded emphatically. “Very. I'm fine.” And nearly breathless, he noted.

He smirked. “Yeah, you are.” He leaned in to drag his tongue from the sensitive attachment edge along her inner thigh up to just outside her labia. He was rewarded with a wanton moan. Definitely on the right track, here.

The scent of her arousal was strong, and she didn't seem to be in a patient mood. Best not put that to the test. A quick glance confirmed for him that the left hand was keeping her tense, with its fingers teasing gentle strokes on her thigh. His right he slid up to rest above her mound, thumb reaching down just between her labia. Damn, she was slick. So very slick. He leaned in to slide the very tip of his tongue along her slit. He got less than halfway before she ground her crotch against his face.

He blew a gentle breath on her and went for the same move again. Same reaction. He shifted and pushed his right arm under her left leg, lifting it over his shoulder. She complied. Reaching around he placed his hand back where it had been, locking her leg in place and opening her up for his tongue.

Another lick drew another long moan from her. He looked up and found her looking down at him, slightly surprised it seemed. He couldn't help but wink at her, before he dove back in to lick at her folds. Her bionic leg was a cool contrast against his shoulder and back, and she drew him closer with it. No doubt as to what she wanted, he indulged her and set to work. A long time it might have been, but some things you don't forget.

Laving attention on her folds, he soon had to hold her in place for all the grinding she did. Strong fingers tangled in his hair again, getting a good grip, attempting to direct him just a little upwards. An almost unintelligible, whispered plea floated down to his ears. The first stroke of his thumb on her clit made her jerk almost violently. He looked up to see her bite down on her knuckles to muffle that whine of blissful torment he drew from her. A few more strokes and then he replaced his thumb with his mouth.

The cool metal of her legs against his skin gave him an idea. Still pinning her against the wall with his right, he carefully traced the fingers of the left hand along her folds, while not letting up on the dance his tongue was performing on her clit. The shudder that went through her encouraged him. Careful not to hurt her he slid one metal finger into her slick canal. He couldn't feel texture, but he hadn't forgotten his knowledge of anatomy and he'd just rely on her reactions for the rest. He curled the finger inside her, caressing her inner walls until he got the writhing reaction he was looking for. Remembering how she'd bit him, he lightly grazed his teeth against her clit and took hold of it with them, flicking his tongue against its tip.

The muffled groan and the way she bore down on his hand and mouth as she came made him feel more accomplished than he had in a while. He slipped the finger out, but kept his right hand on her to steady her. He wasn't sure she was entirely present. Then he sat back on his heels and took in the look of her; skin flushed, lips parted, eyes glazed over. A sight to behold.

When was the last time he'd done anything for no purpose other than fun? He couldn't really recall. And he had definitely never used the artificial arm – old nor new – for anything pleasurable. He considered himself lucky to only be wearing sweats, because anything sturdier would have been very uncomfortable in his current state arousal. He hoped she would be up for a round two once she'd caught her breath again.

A cautious tug on his hair brought him out of his musings. Blue eyes looked down at him. “Come here,” she mouthed breathlessly.

He got up and she pulled him in for a kiss. Her lips and tongue were cool against his and he sighed, enjoying how she seemed to savor the taste of herself on his lips and tongue. He snaked his arms around her, but she stopped the left one, instead bringing it up between them, holding the wrist. “Interesting idea you had there,” she muttered. “Worked nicely.”

“I noticed.” He knew he sounded way more smug than he had any right to be. She **had** said she was touch-starved, so that probably made her extra sensitive. He couldn't take all the credit.

“Gotta love that sniper's focus, huh?”

He grinned and wriggled the fingers a little. “You've a hair trigger, doll. A sniper is no better than what he's working with.”

Amusement shone bright in her eyes. “Well, as a combat engineer it's **my** job to blow things. How about I repay the gesture?” His brain short-circuited as she pulled the metal digit into her mouth and cleaned it of her own juices. He felt none of the gentle touch, but the visual, when she hollowed her cheeks, was plenty to make him groan.

“I'll take that as a yes.” She winked at him. Saucy. It vaguely occurred to him he should probably close his mouth, but then she sank to her knees before him and pulled his sweat pants down with her, wasting no time putting her hands on him. His vision blackened for a few seconds, when she slipped her lips over the head of his cock. He planted both hands on the wall. He'd need luck to last longer than a few seconds of this.

He had no real idea what she was doing, he couldn't think. There was only sensation and everything was electrifying and hot and wet and tight. Blood rushed in his ears. It felt like every single muscle in his body was wound tight like a spring, every single nerve ending was abuzz. He should warn her.

Reaching down to gently stroke her head with his hand; get her attention. “I'm gonna-”

He didn't manage more than that, because she hummed and took him deeper, effectively erasing all words from his brain. She stroked his thigh, encouraging him? Not like he needed incentives. He managed to focus just enough to place his hand back on the wall like the other one, and then she increased speed and pressure. He once again lost track of where he was.

When he regained his bearings, he was still leaning, hands on the wall. The fingers on the left had dug four deep furrows into the wall. She was standing between him and with her arms around his neck. He hadn't even noticed her rising to her feet. Her gaze was searching and when he managed to focus enough to meet her eyes, her smug look probably mirrored his own from before. He leaned down to kiss her. She tasted of him. That realization made his cock twitch and begin to harden again. It didn't take much right now.

“Ready for another round?” He muttered in her ear, as he found he would be ready within seconds.

“I was hoping you'd ask,” she smirked and then looked puzzled. “You good to go again already?”

He sent her a meaningful glance. “See for yourself.”

She looked down. “Damn. That's fast.”

“Perks of the enhancements, I guess.” He shrugged. “If you need a break...”

She shook her head. “I'm definitely good to go. Might need to start slow, though. It **has** been a while and you're not exactly... uhhh, little.”

He snorted. “If you're trying to flatter me...”

She laughed and shook her head.

“Well, it's working, doll.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her deeply again. He slid his hands down her back, over her tight little ass and down to her thighs. “We'll go at your pace.”

She seemed to have figured out what he was doing, 'cause she jumped lightly to let him lift her by her thighs and wrap her legs around him. And then she was kissing him again; mouth hot and teeth nipping at his lips. He groaned and ground himself against her. With her back against the wall, his already straining erection was lodged between them. She reached down and wrapped her fingers around it.

“Up,” she whispered with a wolfish grin. He obliged, and raised her up higher.

She guided the tip of him to her entrance and the moment he felt that soft warmth, he was sorely tempted to just slide home. He bit back a groan and sought her eyes again. That was a bucket of cold water. He saw doubt and apprehension there.

“You okay?”

She nodded slightly, then shook her head, then nodded again and let out a huff of frustration.

He held both of them perfectly still. “What do you need?”

She winced and looked apologetic. “Just... keep going. Slow.”

Hesitation won out over temptation still. “You sure? I don't wanna hurt you.”

She shook her head then and smiled ruefully at him. “You won't. I'm just... replacing some bad memories with something good.”

He wasn't entirely convinced she was going about that in a sensible way, but who was he to judge? “All right,” he conceded, “just let me know, yeah?”

Again she nodded and then nudged him forward with her legs. “I'm okay. I promise. Move? Please?”

He lowered her slowly, gently, and pushed inside of her, never breaking eye contact. She was true to her word. Her eyebrows rode up and she did seem a little overwhelmed – he couldn't claim **he** wasn't – but there was definite desire there, too. Her arms around his neck, her legs around his back, a sudden pressure and she pulled him close, seating him fully within her depths before he could slow her down.

“Oh god,” he gasped as he lowered his head to her shoulder, trying not to blow his load then and there. “Tight.”

“Uh huh,” came the breathless reply in his ear.

Straightening up enough to look at her, he saw her eyes were a bit watery. He brought his hand up to wipe it away. “Okay?”

“Overwhelmed. But good.” She smiled and kissed him again with fervor. Definitely a good sign.

He started out slowly as requested, but she was soon guiding him to a much faster pace. She was so slick and tight around him, he thought he'd lose it completely. It took every ounce of his self-control to not just let loose.

Once again she bit down on his shoulder, and proceeded to nibble her way along his neck up to his ear, where she whispered: “Hard. Fast. Help me forget?”

Any self-control he might have had until that point evaporated. He turned his head to claim her mouth again, wanting to drown in the taste of her; and the taste of himself in her. And he **was** drowning and gasping for air as he drove into her welcoming heat, slamming her against the wall. Her nails were scratching at his back and shoulders, the slight burn of it sharpening his senses and making him all the more aware of the firm softness clenched tight around his cock.

Then her fingers really dug into his traps, enough to hurt, and he felt that rhythmic fluttering of her inner walls. He claimed her mouth again to silence the cry as her eyes rolled back. He thought she'd been tight before, but the vice-like grip that milked his cock sent him straight over the edge to hear and see nothing but static.

Coming to, he was kneeling on the floor. She was still wrapped around him and he could still feel her inner muscles convulsing ever so slightly around his softening cock.

“Hey...” he patted her back. “You with me still?”

A breezy chuckle answered him. “Oh yeah. Right here with ya.” She paused. “Your back's all bloody. Sorry 'bout that.”

“It'll heal.” He shrugged. “I bruised you up pretty good, too. Don't think I've a right to complain.”

She leaned back so they could look at each other. He wasn't sure why, but the moment their eyes met, they both broke into laughter; Full-blown, near-hysterical laughter.

When they caught their breath again it was she who spoke first: “We've both survived loss of limb.”

Clearly she'd had the same thought as him, so he completed it. “Yeah, I'm sure bruises and scratches will send us packing.”

More laughter as they clung to each other, an oddly light sense of relief between them.

“Sergeants Barnes and Mortensen,” Friday piped up.

“I know, Friday, empty bottles and clothes and all. I know.” Her voice was slightly exasperated.

“And a dent in the wall, that we'll convince exactly no one was there before,” James added with no small amount of amusement.

She turned her head to look. “Oh dear. When?”

“When you went down-” he interrupted his own sentence with a groan, feeling something stirring again.

She evidently felt it as well, since he was still inside her. “Shit, you can go **again** so soon?”

“Dunno. Don't really want to right now.” He shook his head. He was hurting in several places, mostly pleasantly so, but there was also some soreness that he didn't feel like making worse. The nod she gave him led him to believe it was much the same for her – and she was not enhanced with accelerated healing. Not to his knowledge anyway.

Friday tried again: “Sergeants, I really must advise you-”

But the helpful AI was interrupted by her maker: “Oh Jesus Christ! I did not need to witness robot sex.” They both startled. “No! Don't move!” Stark all but shouted as James turned his head to peer over his left shoulder. “You're covering each other. I do **not** need to see more.”

“I'm sorry,” Friday said. “I tried to stall him.”

“You were covering for them?” Stark asked incredulously, visibly grateful for something else to demand his attention. “Traitor!”

“No, boss, I was trying to tell them you were on your way. I thought, if I stalled you a bit, they might at least get dressed.”

Stark looked bewildered.

“Oh god, Barnes.” His partner in crime let her head fall forward, so she could hide her face in his shoulder like earlier. He was really beginning to like the feeling of it.

“Doll, after this, I think James would be the appropriate thing to call me.”

A snicker was heard from the kitchen, where Stark had started the coffee maker. An odd time to be doing that. The man must not be planning on sleeping.

“Hey Stark,” he called out, “if you'll keep your back turned for a little longer, we'll get dressed and get out of your hair.”

“Deal!” The man called back.

They reluctantly separated and quickly gathered their clothes. Good thing they hadn't worn all that much before they'd shed them; getting dressed took no time at all.

“So, uhhh James. Guess you can call me Ulrika, then. Or if you feel like that's too strange, just Rigger will be fine.” She smiled at him, suddenly looking oddly awkward.

“Rigger? Army nickname? From your time with the British unit,” he guessed.

“Heh, it was cemented there, yeah, but it's actually from my Danish unit. It means the same in Danish and is only pronounced slightly differently – and closer to my actual name. It's easy that way,” she explained with a shrug.

“Rigger, it is, then. Don't wanna butcher your name.”

“Why not? Seems like fair retaliation,” Stark interrupted having turned back to face them. “Considering how Barnes' back looks.”

She ducked her head in embarrassment. “You'll never let us live this down, will you?”

“Oh no, never. There's too little fun to be had in this place. Coffee?”

They both accepted the offer. James was grateful Stark didn't react any worse than this. Gathering up their empty bottles and disposing of them was quickly done. Now if only he could salvage some dignity. Probably too late for that.

Stark handed them each a mug of coffee, grinning from ear to ear. He was obviously in a fantastic mood. “So is this a new thing? Or have I just not found out about it till now?”

James and Rigger glanced at each other before James took the initiative and answered: “Honestly, Stark, it's so new we don't even know if it's a thing at all.”

Stark looked at them both in turn. He looked especially questioning when he looked at Rigger. She shrugged and pointed. “What **he** said.”

Seemingly, that satisfied the older man. “Right. Well, I should be going. Will I see you in the workshop tomorrow?”

“'Course.”

“All right, then.”

James stared as his benefactor sauntered out of the lounge. He wasn't really surprised when the eccentric man popped his head back in for a last remark. “Oh and try not to dent any more walls, Megazord. That'd be great.”


	9. Target Acquired

James had slept soundly for nearly twice as long as usual, before another nightmare woke him. Four hours of uninterrupted sleep had to be a new record for him. Thoughts of how things had developed between him and the combat engineer the night before cycled through his mind, alternating between the hope that it wouldn't just be a one-time thing and the realization that it would probably be best if they kept it at that. She'd be around for another week at the most. He settled on making the most of the odd familiarity they had developed so quickly.

He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. There were definitely still glimpses of the Bucky he remembered more of these days. Hiding in his crow's feet and the corners of his mouth; a small unconscious smile. His old charming self had resurfaced just enough last night. James hoped he could hold on to it. Perhaps the amount of time he spent writing down how he experienced this re-connection with his former self was excessive. James didn't care. Not one bit. Anything to increase his chances of re-capturing the old Bucky's ability to enjoy life.

Breakfast was a lonely affair, but he **had** come down a lot later than he usually would have, and perhaps enjoying his eggs and toast in solitude wasn't the worst thing to happen. Stark was probably already hard at work. Come to think of it, he'd probably find Rigger there by his side. The two of them had briefly talked about meeting in the workshop after the embarrassing end to the night's activities. He had no idea what they'd be working on now that Colonel Rhodes' spine was repaired. Not that it was any of his business what they were doing, but he wanted to spend as much time in Rigger's company as she would allow. Perhaps it'd be alright if he brought his notebooks to the workshop and just worked there. No harm in asking.

With renewed energy and notebooks in hand, he headed downstairs expecting to find the two inventors in their home away from home. He was not disappointed.

More than likely Friday had announced his imminent arrival, because Stark had his back – clad in one of his usual band t-shirts – turned and didn't even acknowledge his entry into the workspace, clearly unconcerned about the visitor. That could only mean he knew who'd be entering. Rigger on the other hand – dressed like last night in sweats and tank top, no fluffy socks now though – was already looking at the door, when it opened. The smile she sent his way was brighter than he had dared hope, even if her version of 'bright' was nowhere near cheerful compared to others. He couldn't blame her. She had a past. One he'd only caught glimpses of, but which obviously weighed on her. Music was blaring from the concealed speakers in the well-lit scrap-heap of a room. He didn't recognize it. It wasn't Tony's usual soundtrack.

Rigger called out: “James! Slept well? I know I did.” She winked at him. Him! It occurred to him only then that despite knowing who he was, she might only be aware of a very edited version of his story. Instantly he felt guilty for having let things develop as fast as they had. Making informed choices required information, and perhaps she didn't really have as much as she ought to have had. Too late to change things, but he could definitely be on his best behavior.

He nodded and tried to not let any of his guilt and apprehension seep into the smile he sent her. “Yeah, same. Turns out good company improves a lot of things.”

“That it does, mate,” she agreed. “Oy, Tony! What did you mean to do with this?” She held up a... James had no idea what it was. Machine parts of this caliber were so far beyond him it wasn't even funny.

Stark turned around, took a couple of steps in her direction, and stretched his neck to look over the gratuitous heaps of tech and tools on the tables between them. “Oh that? Idea I scrapped. Forgot all about it. Go nuts.” He haphazardly waved off her inquiries. He briefly looked in James' direction, acknowledged his presence with a nod, and then turned back to his own workbench.

James moved further into the room wanting to soak up some of that easy camaraderie between the two friends. His two friends? Could he allow himself to think of them as that? He was getting to a point, where he could begin to think of Stark as a friend, kind of, but Stark knew about him and seemed to not really care. Rigger on the other hand; until he knew how much she knew, he wouldn't get ahead of himself.

So far they didn't seem to even question his presence here, so he would take the luck he got and settled in a chair with a view of the room. He could work on his memories while listening in on their conversation with half an ear, and enjoying the plush upholstery of a chair far more luxurious than any he had ever owned.

James also ended up listening to the music as it turned out. Having gotten used to Stark's habitual and unexpected choice of music with lyrics that were critical of governments and folks in power and just social norms in general it didn't take James long to develop a curiosity about Rigger's choice additions to the playlist.

Modern music played. A style and genre he wasn't familiar with. The sound was more electronic than most of what he'd heard. As he listened to the lyrics it dawned on him just how much he could learn about both of the other people in the room, just from their music choices. It wasn't just about taste for either of them – sometimes maybe – the lyrics were clearly of importance, too.

> Broken body built anew  
>  Spirit lingers torn in two  
>  Metal fingers grip my heart so cold  
>  Fossil fuels to slavery  
>  Political duplicity  
>  Every great commodity's been sold 
> 
> Slave to the new black gold there's a heartbeat under my skin  
>  Search my electric soul for the hidden man within (Miracle of Sound, The New Black Gold)

The next one seemed connected to it somehow. He'd have to ask her about it; the singer was the same man for sure. There seemed to be a story – the same story – behind those two songs. He looked at the dark metal of the artificial hand as he listened.

> Broken bodies line the walls  
>  Midas empires crash and fall  
>  Wings that melt when we try to soar  
>  Close my eyes as I descend  
>  To the gold rush at it's end  
>  Take me back to before...
> 
> This isn't human anymore
> 
> Look into the natural heart  
>  Following the beat of the chemical  
>  This isn't human anymore  
>  Tearing the connections apart  
>  Crawling at the feet of our pedestals  
>  Are you still human at the core? (Miracle of Sound, Natural Heart)

Did Rigger ask herself that question as much as he did? It hadn't even occurred to him, but it should have, considering what she'd told him about people withdrawing from her because of the prosthetics.

He liked the music, but the lyrics were bleak. On one hand, not what he expected to hear from someone with such a will to power through the negative things life might throw at you, but on the other, he didn't yet know all that much about her, and the question seemed pertinent enough.

“Ah ha!” Stark's exclamation had them both looking in his direction. “Friday. Testing. See how long it lasts.” From this distance James couldn't make out what it was other than that a small speck of light was hovering in front of Stark's face. Unbidden James got up and moved closer, curious to see what the man was working on. Stark for his part stepped back from it and when James reached his side, the man held out an arm. “No closer.”

Rigger was looking on with interest.

“I predict flare-out in less than 40 seconds from now. But 15 seconds later than the last model.”

Rigger didn't comment on Stark's statement, just kept looking at the floating ember. James did the same. The mote got slightly bigger, it actually burned, he realized. And then all of a sudden it brightened as if in a tiny explosion and then it flared out with a small hiss. A small metal object fell to the steel table with a small clonk.

“Nice,” Rigger commented. “Just over a minute. 68 seconds?”

“That's right, Sergeant Mortensen,” Friday confirmed. “67.8934 seconds to be exact.”

“Yes! Definite improvement, right there. See, Terminator? I told you!” Stark pointed at Rigger, who grinned.

“You did,” she agreed, still grinning broadly.

“And you didn't believe I could get it beyond the 1-minute mark.”

She shrugged and James still had no idea what he'd just witnessed.

“Even just beyond the 1-minute mark, fuel efficiency at the nano scale is still a problem. Good luck with that. I think I'll stick with the bigger kinds of hardware.” The glance she sent James along with the innuendo almost made him blush. Almost.

Stark caught on as well and looked between them with a raised eyebrow. James figured it had to be a first for the man to not comment despite his obvious wish to. Instead the billionaire just shook his head and turned away, back to his work.

James returned to his seat. The next song that he took note of on the playlist was one he'd heard here before. Even if the characterization of Iron Man didn't at all fit with what he knew of Tony Stark, it could be a surprise to no one that the man liked the song. He wondered if Black Sabbath had ever actually met Stark. He decided to look up the band, wondering why he hadn't thought to do so before. It didn't take him long to figure out that not only had Black Sabbath met Tony Stark during his illustrious playboy years, but the song had never been about him at all. It was written the same year the man had been born. Odd coincidence. It did explain why the lyrics didn't fit the real man.

James returned to his work, trying to piece together some of the memories that had fed the night's nightmare. The task was to separate memory from imagined fears. This time it was easy, because anything bad Rigger featured in had to be imaginary. Separating past from present was a lot easier with solid reference points. This way he didn't even need BARF to do it. He would relish small victories like that.

A soft jazzy song played. It was in French. He liked it, and made a mental note to ask Friday to let him in on the list of songs Rigger had added to the workshop playlist. It was followed by another song also much closer in style to what he'd once listened to. And the way both inventors were swaying and semi-dancing in tune with the music in between their collegial banter and ribbing was amusing to watch. He was okay with periodically forgetting about his intended task, while just watching them. Stark was by far the more elegant dancer of the two.

Rigger noticed him watching and grinned conspiratorially at him. Then she addressed Stark. ”Alright, Tony, spill it. You're in a frightfully chipper mood today. Should I be worried you're planning to get back at us?”

The man turned around to face them and spread his arms in a gesture of complete innocence. “Me? Would I do that?”

“Yeah, Tony. You absolutely would.” Her laugh was contagious and James found himself joining in.

Stark struck up a mock offended look and sniffed. “You wound me. But I think I'll be alright if you offer me a ride.” He waggled his eyebrows lewdly, and James felt a pang of jealousy, when he realized he had no idea what their relation actually was. It took him a little too long to recall what she'd told him the night before about not having been with anyone for years. This was just Stark fooling around. Of course it was. They weren't lovers.

Rigger shook her head with a fond expression. “It's just an old chopper, Tony. Sure, I retrofitted it with an arc reactor, but really, the old girl is older than you. Even if not by much.”

“But that's what makes it fun, isn't it?”

“Well, yeah...”

“And look at Barnes, he's old as dirt, too, and equipped with state-of-the-art tech. That combination seems to work for you.” The strength of Stark's smirk could probably fuel a small air craft carrier. James couldn't find fault with the man's reasoning.

Rigger's palm connected with her face with a loud smack. Her shoulders shook with laughter that quickly developed into an outright laughing fit with her cradling her stomach.

“What? I did say I wasn't gonna let you live it down, didn't I?” Stark maintained his strained look of innocence that never did sit quite right on him.

Struggling for breath she nodded. “You did,” she gasped. “But you didn't answer my question.”

“Damn it, I'd hoped you'd forgotten about that. Pesky memory of yours. Maybe you should have that looked at.”

Rigger's attempt at raising an eyebrow at her cheeky colleague was foiled somewhat by the laughter that still threatened to bubble up. “So. Spill.”

“I had a long talk with Pepper last night,” Stark admitted with a secretive smile.

Immediately Rigger sobered and looked expectantly for Tony to continue.

“It was good,” he offered. It was plain to see he was bursting at the seams with something.

She tilted her head to the side and studied him. “You actually mustered up the courage to hit on her, didn't you?”

The happy and relaxed look on Stark's face was new to James, but the absolutely beatific smile that graced his lips was breathtaking when he said: “Actually, she was the one hitting on me.”

“Tony, that's fantastic!”

The man nodded, and James was genuinely happy for him. The lightness in his mood was unmistakable. James turned his attention back to the work he'd meant to do, feeling that the conversation taking place was private and that he shouldn't invite himself to listen in.

The music shifted to something completely different from anything he'd ever heard. Simple, kind of folksy with fiddles, but with guitars sounding not too different from Black Sabbath's harsh sound. That was the only similarity, though. The woman who sang sounded powerful in a way Black Sabbath's vocalist didn't. The lyrics were in Danish. Definitely Rigger's music choice, then. An odd ballad about supernatural events and something about knights and damsels. He surmised it was written to sound older than it was.

“You understand it, don't you?” James was pulled out of his absent-minded listening to look at Stark.

“Uhh, yeah.”

“Didn't know you spoke Danish.”

That got Rigger's attention. “You do?” Her expression was curious.

He shrugged, uncomfortable with the scrutiny, hers more than Stark's. “I learned a lot of languages, while...” He didn't know how to finish the sentence. He didn't know how much she could be allowed to know.

Her look of curiosity morphed to one of shrewd understanding. “Guess I shouldn't be surprised, really. Denmark guards the naval passages out of the Baltic. Anything sailing out St. Petersburg and Kronstadt would have to go through Danish waters. Makes sense the Russians would be prepared to infiltrate Denmark if they decided to heat up the Cold War.”

James studied her. He thought he might even be gaping a bit. “You know, then.”

“That you used to be The Winter Soldier? Yep.”

“And you still...? You don't have a problem with that?” He could hardly believe his ears.

“You telling me I should have?” Her gaze was level, open, inquisitive, but non-judgmental.

He stared. He couldn't decide what his answer should be, so he ended up just shaking his head slowly. He wasn't about to tell her what to do.

Stark spoke up. “I took the liberty of consulting Terminator here on your situation. Maybe I should have mentioned that. I was going to. Once Rhodey's situation was settled. One thing at a time, you know.”

“Now, be honest, Tony. You consulted me on **a** situation. I figured out who you were lodging here on my own.” James didn't doubt that for a second. The woman was clever. Looking directly at him she continued. “I'm sorry. I thought he'd informed you. He asked me to take a look at the scans of your shoulder, but I can't help much without examining you more closely.”

In the background a woman sang:

> If I leave my grin behind  
>  remind me  
>  that we're all mad here  
>  and it's okay. (S.J. Tucker, Cheshire Kitten)

“I'm not sure why? Shuri fixed me a new arm. It works fine.” He held it up and wriggled the fingers for them to see.

“See? I told you. He's not even aware of it,” Stark quipped as both he and Rigger stepped around their respective worktables and came to join James by the chairs.

“Aware of what?” He was puzzled.

Rigger sighed. “Yeah, you did say that. Tony sent me the scans of your shoulder and torso, and you should currently be in a world of pain. As in so bad that you'd be barely functional.”

There was always pain. He had just resigned himself to that being a fact of his life. He shrugged.

“No, really, when I say barely functional, I mean barely functional, possibly in a coma,” she insisted as she walked over to sit on the armrest of his chair. He didn't doubt that she meant every word, but he had no explanation for any of it. “Implants like these will not be painless. Mine aren't either, but yours are, well, let's just say the only reason you're not dead from the pain-overload alone must be your serum-enhancement.”

He looked up at her and over at Stark who'd plopped himself down in the other chair. Rigger, too, looked at the pensive billionaire currently looking at them. Between two geniuses James felt severely out-classed.

* * * * *

Ulrika figured they might as well just get down to business, now that James had been informed that she'd been informed. “I dunno if you're up for it, but if you are, I'd like to take a look at you. See if there's anything at all I can do for you.”

He looked up at her, his gray eyes seeming paler than the night before. “You didn't get a good enough look last night?”

She snorted at his flirtatious smirk. For someone who claimed to be out of practice, he managed to be rather smooth. “Jamie, darling, my focus was elsewhere, dunno if you noticed.” She joked and clamped down on the urge to playfully swat at his arm. She'd need alcohol in her system for her to take things there so soon again. And she should definitely have herself a good long think about it, too. In her line of work, this sort of complication, however enjoyable, might not be the healthiest.

He laughed. Tony did as well and quipped: “If he didn't, we have bigger problems than his shoulder.”

That made all of them laugh.

James sighed before he spoke: “I guess there's no harm in you taking a look.” She noticed his slight hesitation. “Just... I can get a bit twitchy. Just so you know.”

“No surprise there, all things considered. Don't worry about it,” she assured him. “I'll be gentle. And careful.” It was obvious from his skeptical glance that he was concerned for **her** safety rather than his own. He looked doubtfully between her and his metal limb.

Eventually he nodded and Ulrika was relieved. Tony had warned her that it might require some coaxing to get James to agree to an examination unless there was something actively bothering him that he needed fixed. So far it was going a lot smoother than she'd expected.

“So, where d'ya want me?” He leaned forward to rise from the chair, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Here is good for now. If I can just get you to ditch the t-shirt.”

“In a hurry to get me naked again?” Despite the words, his tone was anything but flirtatious and belied the obvious nervousness underneath. He did pull the shirt over his head. The scratches she had left on his back and shoulders were fully healed. Nothing to see unless you knew what you were looking for. She kept her hands off for now, this was business.

He still looked uncomfortable, but she could play along with faux flirting if it made him feel more at ease. “Better believe it, sergeant. Just scoot forward a bit, so I can get you between my legs again.”

At least he had the decency to blush slightly at that, and he cast her a sidelong glance, while doing as ordered. Tablet in hand, with a schematic of a human body – James' body – ready, Ulrika stepped up and placed her right foot on the seat of the chair, just behind his back before sitting on the armrest again. She lined her lower leg up with his spine. “Sit up straight for me?”

He did, and she gently pushed on him to lean back against her leg. He quirked an eyebrow. “Not the traditional doctor-patient relation you're going for?”

“Not a doctor, but with you I'm sure I can be convinced to play,” she winked at him again. He relaxed ever so slightly, even as a few huffs of quiet laughter shook his shoulders.

She slid her fingertips along the topmost part of his spine. “Yeah, your spine has definitely been pulled to the left. Not surprising really. The old arm must have been a lot heavier than this one.”

“It was,” he confirmed quietly. “This one feels like it weighs nothing at all.” He lifted his left hand curled the fingers into a fist and relaxed again, studying the movements. Ulrika studied his face. His bitter frown spoke volumes.

“That's probably your mind playing tricks on you. It's definitely not weightless, but it does seem a lot closer to a real arm.”

She looked over at Tony, who nodded. “Should actually be pretty accurate, Shuri told me. The princess knows her trade.”

“That's really good,” Ulrika spoke to James again. “That means your spine might actually right itself without help. Mind you, I said might.” She didn't want to get his hopes up. Not unduly so, anyway.

“I'm not gonna hold you to anything.” He turned his head to send her a crooked grin that didn't reach his eyes before looking straight ahead again.

“Glad to hear it. So, I'll start from the attachment points and work my way in from there, first on the front, then on the back,” Ulrika explained, hoping that it would put him just slightly more at ease. “I get that you have massively dulled sensory perception for this entire area, but I'd like you to let me know, when I come upon spots that are more sensitive than the rest. It's all relative, but it'll give me something work with. Is that possible for you?”

He nodded. “Yeah, yeah, sounds doable. Guess I'll grunt, when something hurts.” His tone was becoming more hollow by the second. She knew, she'd been through some shit, but this man... she couldn't even imagine. Didn't want to, either. Seeing the scans had told her plenty.

“Good. Would you like me to talk you through what I'm doing and whatever conclusions I draw? Or would you rather I shut up?”

James took a deep breath and obviously gave her question some thought, judging from the deep lines forming across his forehead. That was a good sign. At least it meant he **could** be brought to care about his own comfort. To a degree, anyway. “Uh, do you think we could talk about something else? I'm not sure I wanna think too much about... this.” He indicated his left shoulder with his right hand. She felt certain it wasn't the shoulder itself, but rather how it came to be what it was, he wanted to avoid. “And if we shut up I might withdraw completely and... yeah. Won't be much help, then.”

She hadn't thought of that. Working on people definitely wasn't where she excelled, but his idea was good. A distraction was in order. “Huh, that makes sense. Any requests for topics?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged. Then he indicated her left leg, foot currently resting on the floor beside his. “Tell me about yours?”

Considering how she was already working with quite a bit of knowledge of what had been done to him, it seemed only fair to reciprocate. Was that really a road she wanted to walk down right this instant, though? It seemed right enough, if not precisely comfortable for her. Oh to hell with it, they could be uncomfortable together.

“Or you can just tell me about your music selection,” he offered, obviously having caught on to her hesitation. Good-looking and observant: Absolutely not fair. And seemingly better at reading people than she was. He continued before she managed to think her way to a decision. “Hey, I know this one. Minnie the Moocher. You listen to music this old? It's from when I was a teen, I think?”

“Or both,” she forced a grin to strengthen her resolve. “And yes, I do indeed. Just 'cause people have come up with lots of new genres, it doesn't mean the old ones aren't worth listening to.”

Ulrika gently started prodding at the scarred skin at the edge of James' bionic limb. He didn't make a sound, as if he didn't feel a thing. He might not. The odd lines radiating away from the metal looked suspiciously like he had tried to claw at it. Come to think of it, he probably had. She marked the area as numb on the schematic.

“Ella, Louis, Duke. People still listen to their recordings,” she explained.. “And many of the songs from back then still get re-recorded by new artists, because... well, I guess art just never dies.”

“That's truth, right there,” Tony interjected from his chair. He had also leaned forward and was watching James like a hawk. Even should something happen to make the man lose his composure, she'd have Tony at her back. That was a great comfort to her.

“This recording of Minnie the Moocher is new. It's Abney Park,” she informed him.

James nodded, clearly paying attention. “Thought I didn't recognize the voice, but I've heard it sung by several different people, so I couldn't be sure.”

“But you're right. This one you couldn't have heard in your day. Speaking of versions: you wanted to know about my legs. The first version of them wasn't too great and nearly killed me.”

Tony's brows furrowed. She'd known he would take an interest in that topic as well. “You didn't make sure you could survive what you did to yourself?”

She shrugged and continued the exploratory prodding along James' clavicle, marking down the spots where he reacted. “It was necessary, and there was no time for real testing. It's not like you have a wealth of options at your disposal as a PoW.” That made both of them look at her sharply.

“You were a PoW?” James was the one to ask. He kept his expression impressively neutral, and Ulrika appreciated it. They'd both been in that situation. He'd know what it entailed, so she just nodded. Tony's look was just dark. Oh yeah, there had been something about him being held hostage in Afghanistan some years back. He probably also knew a thing or two about it.

She could tell them some of the story. “I'm not at liberty to tell you where nor even when, so since I'd like to avoid being court martialed you'll have to go without that information. Suffice to say my unit and the battalion we were accompanying ran directly into an ambush. A damned good one at that.” She was fully aware of the dark bitterness that seeped into her voice. She let it. “We lost a lot of good people that day.”

“I'm still not entirely sure what happened after the initial attack. Our attackers definitely knew what they were doing. When I came to, the sarge was still unconscious, and the corporal was barking orders at whoever was still able to follow them. I held rank of lance corporal at the time. Was serving with British troops,” she added as explanation, while moving her prodding fingers down below James' arm to feel his ribs. Some of them had either been reinforced or replaced according to the scans.

“I carried the sarge out of there on my shoulders as we had to fall back and find cover. Never got that far. Seems they intended to take prisoners, 'cause the next round of gunfire ripped my legs out from under me. It's kinda hazy, but I remember hearing an order being given to 'tie them off'. Not up. Off. I think that was probably in reference to my legs, 'cause when I woke up again, we were in something that looked like a field hospital. First I thought we'd been rescued, but that was wishful thinking. Everyone was cuffed to their beds. Not that I was going anywhere anyway. Below my knees there was nothing left, so that was a grand old party to wake up to.”

Tony looked ill, but he could stop listening if he didn't wanna hear it. James had been the one to ask and he was listening with rapt attention, and still keeping to his word of grunting whenever she hit a tender spot.

“We were alive; the six of us. Injured, sure, but alive. And they had antibiotics and everything else needed to keep us alive for a good long while yet. I hope you don't mind that I skip lightly over the things they did to us. Not my favorite things to reminisce about. Suffice to say, the lack of legs meant they didn't expect me to be able to do much of anything. More fool them, because they didn't consistently restrain or cuff me. They got careless. Whenever they left me – or us – unsupervised in the hospital or in the other rooms they took us to, I used that time, to gather whatever I could find.”

Tony chuckled darkly. “That can't have made your injuries better, but I think I see where this is going. Never let an engineer anywhere near parts if you don't want them to get creative.”

“Pretty much, yeah.” She sent him a grin. “As for the others: two of them didn't make it. And my three remaining fellow inmates weren't doing **that** much better than me. One couldn't walk – they'd roughed him up the worst – another could only barely walk. And the last one couldn't exactly carry all three of us out of there. So I built myself a pair of really fucking primitive legs. They started out as just pegs, really, but then I got my hands on some weapons control systems. Managed to connect some microprocessors to my nervous system, so I could kinda walk rather than just totter. The trial and error hurt like a bitch, and I fried my nerves pretty bad, but it's amazing what you can do with enough adrenaline in your system and some extra shots of epinephrine. They sucked, but I was walking. I could move about faster, and that gave me enough time to free the others.”

“Wait... you performed surgery on yourself. With no anesthetics?” Tony gaped.

“Well, yeah, anesthetics would have knocked me out, and then I wouldn't have been able to do the surgery, now would I? Besides, I needed a way to check if I'd gotten the nerves connected right. Numbed down I couldn't have done that.”

James shook his head. “That's insane.”

“I was desperate,” she corrected him, ignoring how he was probably not entirely wrong. “We just needed to get to one of their vehicles. Aaaaand I may have also placed charges in strategic places. I **am** a combat engineer. It's my job to level the terrain for ease of passage. Let's just say it's very easily accessible now.”

“Anyway,” she pushed James forward slightly, so she could examine his back. He complied, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “To make a long story short. We got out of there. Managed to get a hold of HQ for an exfil. At the field hospital – our own this time – they had to remove my fancy new legs as well as a few extra inches of my stumps. I had caused quite a bit of damage, when I attached them, and the microprocessors were **not** meant to communicate with a human nervous system, so I fried my own nerves pretty good. The sepsis wasn't fun either. It was touch and go with me for a while.”

“Jesus Christ, woman. What were you thinking?” It wasn't so much judgment in James' tone. More disbelief. Ulrika couldn't blame him. It did sound crazy. It **was** crazy.

She shrugged. “Of solutions. I'm an engineer, it's what I do.”

“Sounds familiar.” The solemn statement came from Tony. “It's not so different from what happened to me.”

Ulrika and James both looked to the older man as he leaned back in his chair with an unreadable expression, one hand rubbing his goatee. Neither of them said anything. She continued her careful exploration of the metal inlays along James' ribs, reaching all the way to his spine. It might need a little help, before it could right itself. There was still too much metal pulling on things that shouldn't be pulled. And there was something off about his scapula, too. He needed to work with a physiotherapist or a trainer with knowledge of weird injuries. Definitely not her.

“Old news articles will tell you how I was held for three months in Afghanistan. It's almost a decade ago now. What they won't tell you is that I nearly died from the metal fragments embedded in my chest, and when I woke up, another prisoner, a brilliant scientist, had carved out a hole in my chest, in order to place an electro-magnet there. To prevent the fragments from burrowing into my heart and killing me. He powered it with a car battery.”

Both she and James were gaping at him.

“A car battery,” she repeated flatly.

“Yep. My life depended on a car battery. Permanent luggage. Until I stripped the palladium from the microchips in the missiles they wanted me to remodel. Used it to make a smaller power source for the magnet, so I didn't need to lug the battery around. And I powered the first iteration of my suit as well. For the escape. Suit didn't make it. No great loss. Wasn't very elegant anyway.”

She sometimes managed to impress others with her ingenuity, but right here was evidence why Tony Stark was as legendary as he was. “Here I am with my robotic prosthetics, when you invented the bloody arc reactor while in captivity. Bloody hell, Tony.”

He shrugged, and she could tell he wasn't liking the conversation any more than she had liked talking about her experience. Perhaps he had caught on to her goal of leveling the playing field, so James wouldn't be the only one whose shitty history others were wise to.

“And you used palladium as a power source in the middle of your chest? How are you not dead? Palladium poisoning is no lark.”

Ulrika noticed James was looking lost, so she explained, while she took a hold of his elbow and directed his arm up and forward, to observe how the shoulder joint moved. “Palladium is a seriously powerful energy source. You can use absolutely minuscule amounts to power missile guidance systems. I take it that's what you stripped?” The question was directed at Tony, who nodded. “But when using palladium like that, it gives off a little radiation, and that'll kill you. Slowly. But here you are.”

“Here I am,” Tony confirmed with a smirk. “Long story. I'll make it short. I needed an alternative for palladium. So I invented it. Or rather, my dad knew about it and invented a way to synthesize it, but he didn't have the means to do it. I did. So I made it.”

“But there's nothing in your chest now,” James observed, echoing Ulrika's thoughts, and making her wonder, how James would even know that. “So how'd you fix that?”

“Another scientist had attempted to make a super-serum like Steve's. Virus based, and with a tasteful side effect of the entire person overheating and exploding in a great conflagration of doom. Very messy and deadly for everyone around them. I managed to adjust it down to a temporary means of accelerating the body's ability to regenerate. Still unstable. Very risky. But it was either that, or keep having a reactor permanently lodged in my chest. And I'd already been through one instance of someone ripping it out of my chest nearly killing me. It was a weak point. I don't like weak points.”

James tensed under her hands and she stopped her ministrations. “You... someone pulled it out of your chest.” He was pale, voice flat, as he asked the question: “How long ago? When did you get rid of it?”

Ulrika saw the looks exchanged between the two men but had no idea what was going on. She kept one hand lying flat against the skin of James' back, hoping a simple conversation wouldn't escalate uncontrollably.

“Couple of years,” Tony answered flippantly.

Underneath her palm she felt the shaky exhalation of a held breath. There was some history here she wasn't aware of. That much was obvious. She waited to see if either of them felt like enlightening her, but she wouldn't hold her breath. It was obviously a sore spot, and if they hadn't talked about it between them yet, they likely wouldn't want an audience when opening a can of worms. **She** certainly wouldn't.

When neither of the men seemed inclined to be forthcoming, Ulrika figured she might as well take the conversation in another awkward direction, since they were already navigating uncomfortable territory.

James beat her to it, though. “By the way, Stark. You keep calling her Terminator. I get that it's a film about a robot, but what's a Megazord?”

Ulrika laughed, appreciating the temporary reprieve from troubled topics. “That's what you took away from last night? I feel deeply insulted, mate. It's another science-fiction flick. With robots that can join with each other to become a bigger robot.”

He looked every bit as puzzled as she'd expected, until realization finally dawned and he glanced between his arm and her legs. She never thought she'd see the day, when a man as feared as The Winter Soldier rolled his eyes in exasperation and proceeded to just hide his face in his hands.

“Don't worry about his nicknames. If you get one, it means he likes you, but don't let him know that you know,” she comforted in a highly amused stage whisper.

Stark rolled his eyes. “Don't believe everything she says, Robocop,” making them all laugh, draining the previous tension out of them as well as the room.

“I'm done here, I think,” Ulrika declared as she extricated her right leg from the chair and stood up. It hurt straightening her back, she'd definitely been in that position for too long. “Don't think I can learn much more without a thorough analysis of your range of motion. And that will require an expertise I don't actually have. You can put your shirt back on. Thanks for indulging me.”

James reached for the previously discarded t-shirt, relief evident in his movements, and pulled it over his head. “No problem. So what's the verdict?”

She sat down on the floor, cross-legged and straightened her back, trying to work out the kinks. “Well, there are areas, where even my gentlest prodding elicited a response from you, most of them I can link to the obvious foreign elements in your body. And then there are areas with no response at all.”

“But that's good, isn't it? Places that don't hurt. I'm kind of a fan of those,” he joked, though she suspected he had a good idea what she'd say next.

“Yeah, and some of them are fine. But others, well, let's just say that I think the reason they're not hurting you, is because either the nerves are dead, fried, and if not for that you'd be screaming in pain. Or your brain has simply shut down any pain reception for that area, because otherwise you'd be screaming in pain. I can't tell which of the two it is, without a thorough scan of electrical activity in your entire peripheral nervous system, and even with such a thing, there's not much I can do about it right now anyway.”

“That expertise you don't have,” he concluded.

“Exactly. The mapping of your peripheral nervous system would have to go hand in hand with thorough insight into your current physical capabilities. And before we start anything to do with your peripheral nervous system, we have to make sure that your central nervous system is, if not in perfect condition, then at least stable, and Tony tells me **that** might take a while yet.”

A somber mood settled over the three of them.

“By the way,” Ulrika decided she might as well ask the question she'd intended earlier. “Last night you said something.”

“Yeah? I recall saying a lot of things.”

“Pffft,” she rolled her eyes. “No, you had a flashback, and you said something I didn't understand.”

His brow furrowed, and Tony scooted forward with undisguised interest as well as concern evident on his features. “I don't remember saying anything then. But I was pretty out of it,” James conceded, wincing as he spoke.

“You were. It was just a single word,” she explained. “Well, that's not true. It was two words. But I don't need to ask you what 'nyet' means. Just the other one. I'll probably butcher it, but it sounded kind of like zhelaniye.”

He jerked back in the chair and threw his head back, eyes clenched shut. Ulrika was on her feet and by his side in record time. “James?!”

She reached for his face, but his left hand shot out and caught her wrist. His eyes met hers, fear, confusion. He gripped her wrist so tight it hurt. She could feel her bones on the verge of giving out. “James? It's just me. You're safe. No one will hurt you.” She slowly reached out with her other hand and gently stroked his hair.

Realization dawned in his eyes fraction by fraction and he let go of her wrist with a panicked whimper. She cupped his cheek. “I'm so sorry. I had no idea it would bring it back. Are you alright?”

He nodded mutely and then focused on something behind her. She looked over her shoulder to find Tony pointing the repulsors of both gauntlets straight at James.

“You won't need those.” James sounded out of breath. “Not unless either of you are gonna recite the rest of those words.”

Tony didn't look convinced, but he did lower his hands.

“Words?” Ulrika was confused for half a second and then it became clear. “You accidentally told me one of your trigger words during a flashback? Shit. That's nowhere close to safe for you.”

“Nor for anyone else,” James added ruefully and shook his head, looking at her wrist, where a hand-shaped bruise was already showing its colors.

“Hey, hey,” she forced his head up to look at her. “Not your fault, you hear?”

“What does it mean? That word?” Tone asked from behind her left shoulder.

James looked between them both before he looked down. “Longing.”

“Tony, what are you thinking?” She knew him well enough to tell, when his mind started working through problems. The slightly unfocused gaze was the biggest tell of them all.

“Well, you, uhh, the Soldier actually, did say the hypnotist, who worked on you, used people's own memories and feelings to manipulate them.”

“Yeah,” James nodded. “He did write that you'd talked about that.”

Feelings. Ulrika's least favorite type of problem to try and fix. But she knew someone who was really good with that. She met Tony's eyes. “We need someone people-savvy who won't have to repeat Russian words to get a translation.” He nodded his agreement, and she continued: “You thinking what I'm thinking?”

“I'd been meaning to ask you about getting a hold of her,” he admitted.

Liz would be able to help with the physical aspect of things as well. “I'm gonna find out, where she is. I don't keep track of her tournaments. I think maybe she said Sacramento? I'll find out. But I think the three of us need a little excursion this week.”

“Uhhh can someone please fill me in on what you're deciding is best for me?” James sounded more than a little annoyed, instantly unleashing a guilty conscience.

“Shit, sorry. I have this friend. If not for her, I would have drowned in the mess I was after losing my legs. She's good. Really good. And she's fluent in Russian. And a number of other languages.”

“And more importantly,” Tony interrupted her. “She's not a clinician, so she shouldn't trigger any of those associations.”

James nodded slowly. “The idea you talked about last week? Or the week before?”

Tony nodded and Ulrika chimed in: “And I agree with him. I think Liz might be just the right fit to help you out. I'll set something up. You'll like her, you'll see.”


	10. Gathering

Seeing Tony and James behave like boys with new toys was a sight for sore eyes, and Rigger stood back and let them have at it. The old gray lady, as the Sikorsky S-61A series had become known in Denmark during their 45 years of service, wasn't gray any longer. When she'd requisitioned two of them to play around with, when they were being pulled from service, she hadn't actually expected to get them. Apparently, the results of her R&D was more valuable than whatever price they might have fetched had they been put up for sale.

Sikorsky had put out an update kit, but she'd forgone that and done her own thing. Good times. Kind of. It had kept her afloat during a bad time. Stripping everything but the hull, she had wanted to rethink the chopper for long-term tactical deployment without going with all the known configurations for that purpose. Might have been easier to start something new from scratch, but the old gray lady was the chopper she'd admired as a child. Living close to the coast had meant the sea rescue choppers had been a staple of her a childhood. She would recognize the sound of their engines anywhere. It was a nostalgia project, she could admit that, but it was fun and had served her well so far.

The characteristic sound of the engines being to her liking didn't matter anymore. Most recently she'd stripped the old GE turboshafts and replaced them with the arc reactor from Tony, extending the old girl's operational range by an order of at least twenty. She hadn't had occasion to test the limits yet, but her calculations put it somewhere in the vicinity of making it nearly halfway round the globe, and with how much they still didn't know about vibranium as a power source, it would probably end up being more than twice that. She'd had to re-design the rotors as well to increase the top speed, too. How could she not with all that extra juice available from the reactor?

Tony was elbow deep in the engine, checking out how she'd integrated the arc reactor instead of the old power plants. That had been a bit more complex than she'd first assumed it would, but that was just more fun for her. James was still walking around the outside, tracing his fingers over the hull with a faraway look on his face. She walked over to him.

“I had to learn the specs of the original military models,” he said somberly.

“Makes sense,” she nodded, not requiring any help figuring out why that might have been. “The Sea King is what's used to transport the president of the US on occasion. This one's a variation. Originally fitted for sea rescue operations. Used to be enamored with it as a child.”

“Really?”

She smiled fondly. “Yeah, grew up by the coast. Used to always run out of the house to watch them fly out to sea, whenever I heard their engines in the distance. These old ladies carry a great deal of responsibility for my interest in engineering.” She patted the chopper's dark hull affectionately. “And for enlisting, too.”

* * * * *

The locker rooms were always chaotic, but it didn't bother Liz. She could shut it out easily enough. It bothered the kids, though, and that was worse. At smaller tournaments in local promotions like these, half of her job ended up being about helping them maintain focus and not be distracted by all the milling about people did around them.

Kids... they weren't really. All of them over the age of 18, but to her they were just kids. Driven, motivated, mature and hell-bent on making it big, but still just kids. The months of fight camp in Sacramento had been great, and she was confident her two fighters would do well. It hadn't been the plan for her to take a fight as well, but there was a dearth of female fighters available on short notice. So when one of the female strawweights on the main card had to cancel due to a bad shoulder injury, they'd called her. They knew she'd be there with her own fighters anyway.

She wasn't sure it had been a good idea to accept. Her obligation was to her two kids, who'd been training for this for months, hoping that it might eventually net them contracts with one of the bigger organizations. Oh well, at least she didn't have to struggle to make weight unlike so many other fighters. She'd find her focus later.

* * * * *

“Oy, Tony! You think you can put off taking my girl apart? If we're planning to fly anywhere with it, we need it assembled.” Rigger leaned casually against the hull looking up at the older engineer. James grinned next to her. He had every reason to, since she'd just caved and agreed to let him fly them to Detroit. He hadn't flown anything since he'd attempted to flee in a police chopper in Germany, and that was hazy at best, since he hadn't exactly been himself. Or at least not the present version of himself. Some things you never forget, though. Like how to fly a chopper.

Stark climbed back down, looking only slightly peeved. But he at least seemed to accept that playtime was over, given that he put on his suit jacket again. One that James was sure had cost more money than he'd ever seen in his life. “Wait, does that mean I get to take her apart, when we get back?”

Rigger rolled her eyes. “As long as I can fly her home on time, sure. I wanna have a go at one of your suits in return, though.”

“Absolutely not!” Judging from the look on Stark's face, she could just as well have asked to read his diary. If he had one. James didn't know. Stark didn't seem the type. Then again, **he** wasn't the type either, and he kept journals to manage his... head. From what Stark had let on about his own troubles, he might actually do something similar. It was all guess work and James put it out of mind. Today was about something entirely different.

Rigger shrugged like she didn't have a care in the world. “Quid pro quo, hot rod. It's your call.”

The businessman persona of Tony Stark gave every impression of being ripped off. “You drive a mean bargain, woman.”

“No, I drive a mean Piranha,” she corrected with a smirk. James figured she meant the armored vehicle of Swiss make. “This is me being all friendly and accommodating.” He wouldn't ever want to get on her bad side, he mused before she spoke again. “James, get in and start her up. She might be a lot faster than the original, but we still have a deadline. Get to know her. I'll be right along. Probably best if I'm the one to communicate with ATC.”

She didn't need to tell him twice. He was itching to get back in a cockpit; and for benign purposes for a change. He climbed in. Rigger hadn't been kidding, when she told them that she had liked the nostalgia of retrofitting an old chopper rather than building a shiny new thing. She had kept the 'feel' of the originals even when implementing her own prototype tech. If not for the capabilities of this modded S-61 reaching far beyond anything anyone had built in the 60s, he could probably have been convinced nothing had been changed from the original. He liked it. Even though he'd spent this chopper's lifetime handling Soviet tech, this one still felt familiar to him. It was probably more a question of age and utilitarian design than nationality. He ran his fingers over the well-used surfaces, wondering how many missions she'd flown in this thing. The experience the woman exuded told him: more than just a few.

From the cockpit he spotted Pepper Potts walking out onto the landing platform, as always immaculately dressed. This time in a dress in a pale color, which – combined with her ginger hair – made him think of strawberries and cream and warm summer days in Central Park. She joined Stark and Rigger, placing her hand in the crook of Stark's elbow. The woman currently smiling and chatting with the two engineers had invited herself along on their outing, stating that she was curious to see what this Liz was about. James was fairly certain Potts just wanted to make sure Stark wasn't about to invite the wrong people into his life. She and Rhodes both seemed to take that job very seriously.

Rigger directed their two passengers into the cabin and then joined him in the cockpit with a grin. They both donned the flight helmets, not that they needed them for on-board communications. With an arc reactor powering the thing, the only sounds heard were from moving parts and air resistance. By no means silent, but nowhere near as noisy as the original. That was the only thing to break the illusion that this was a thing of the 60s. James found he didn't mind much as they lifted off of the pad.

* * * * *

Liz had never seen Temir this focused. The young Kazakh had done his two years of mandatory military service in his home country, and then he had dropped everything and aimed for a civilian fighting career; the fighting he had excelled at even before being conscripted. He'd moved to Dagestan to train with the best of the best. She couldn't fault his decision. Dagestan was one of the best places to go for fight training; especially wrestling. It was where she'd met him; two years ago now, and she'd been there for the same reason. In his pro career he was 5 and 2 in Russia. Now he was taking on a fight in the States. His first pro-bout on American soil, hoping for more to come. The past several months, he and his Dagestani wrestling coach, Maher, had joined the fight camp in Sacramento, where she had been the one to coach him on striking and fight psychology. A number of English lessons had also taken place. As much as it annoyed her on principle, the ability to understand and speak English made a lot of things more accessible in many different sports. MMA was no different.

The 23-year old was determined to earn a contract. Liz had already spotted representatives from both Bellator and UFC. She didn't mention them to Temir – no need – he wouldn't know their faces anyway, and he would already be aware that someone would be here. That was motivation enough if the steely look in his eyes was anything to go by. With their habitual good-luck headbutt she sent him off to the octagon with the promise that she'd call instructions for him in Russian. His English had improved immensely, but everything was easier if both of his coaches used the same language. Good corner work was essential for most fighters.

The announcer managed to not butcher Temir Iskakov's name. Liz took that as a good omen. Making her way to their corner she looked to the front row seats immediately behind their corner. She spotted Ulrika, accompanied by Tony, Pepper Potts and a man she didn't recognize. No big mystery as to who he'd be. In disguise, obviously. Wise move. She and Ulrika exchanged a brief nod, Liz couldn't allow herself more. Right now her job was to corner for Temir, hopefully to a victory. Realistically speaking, he wouldn't even need luck. She'd studied his opponent, and Temir was by far the better wrestler, and with his longer frame he had a 7-inch reach advantage to boot. He should be able to control the bout. She joined Maher in their corner. He gave her one of his small confident smiles. He felt as good about Temir's chances as she did – not that he'd ever say it out loud.

The bout didn't even make it into the second round. After two minutes of the first round Temir had his opponent bleeding profusely from a cut at the hairline. The guy had quite the chin on him, and seemed to just soak up any damage Temir dealt, though. The Detroit native, who had most of the audience cheering for him didn't go down. That was no good. They wanted a finish. She called to Temir to change levels and take it to the canvas, thus handing the reins to Maher. With all the blood, this was going to be a sticky affair, but it shouldn't take long.

At three minutes and twenty-three seconds, Temir's poor bastard of an opponent tapped out due to an expertly applied anaconda choke. Those long arms were a menace at any distance. Even with her near two-decade head start in combat sports, she was in trouble, when rolling on the mats with Temir. She and Maher went in to join Temir. Maher went over all the flaws of his winning anaconda choke, while she wiped off the blood – none of which was Temir's. Liz smiled to herself. This was why Dagestani fighters and the people who trained with them were nigh unstoppable; even in victory there was always room for improvement. Going over his striking and fight IQ could wait. For now she'd let him enjoy his success, and she'd head out back to focus on Rafi as soon as possible.

When she got the chance, she cast a glance at the talent scouts. She suspected Temir and Maher might get a call in the near future. She hoped. The kid could make it far. Liz resolved to have a chat with the UFC representative before the night was over. Put in a good word for him

* * * * *

Ulrika looked at James curiously. She hadn't really had a chance to see him look at anyone but herself; not with that kind of intensity and focus anyway. She could practically feel him absorb information. Sometimes he watched the fighter in the octagon, sometimes the pair of coaches shouting directions in what she surmised was Russian.

She elbowed him gently. “Learn anything useful?”

He didn't look at her but leaned in, so she could hear his voice over the din. “Your friend has a Dagestani accent like the other coach, but the fighter is Kasakh according to the fight card.”

Ulrika grinned at him, quietly impressed. He probably wasn't quite prepared for the widely varied mix of nationalities to be encountered in something like MMA. “She's gone to Dagestan to train several times. Many do. Apparently they hatch excellent fighters there.”

He nodded in pensive understanding and never took his eyes off the action. She couldn't blame him for wanting to learn as much as possible about the person, whom she and Tony had both insisted would be able to help him. Once the fight went to the ground it was over quickly, and James looked impressed.

They cheered for Liz' fighter. The majority of the audience supported their home grown heroes, so the guests needed all the support they could get.

There'd be two more fights before Liz' other fighter was up. Rafael Silva, a Mexican kid of only 18, who was making his pro-debut against a 21-year old with five pro fights under his belt. It could very well turn out as bloody and nearly one-sided as Iskakov's bout. Liz had been confident in both of her fighters, but Silva was younger and perhaps more likely to get nervous in the limelight.

Ulrika didn't have much of an interest in the fighting. It had never appealed to her as a sport, beyond the fact that her best friend since childhood made a career of it. She would come and support Liz with all the cheers needed and then some, but she had never watched a fight unless someone she knew was involved. James, it seemed, was more like Liz in that regard. He was listening with rapt attention as the announcer introduced the next two fighters to enter the octagon. Not surprising, really. He **had** been an amateur boxing champion before the war. He'd told her about it, after she'd announced the kind of event they'd be meeting Liz at. His excitement had been subdued, but unmistakably there. There was nothing subdued about him right now. It was endearing how he'd lit up and let his enthusiasm out. It only reinforced her conviction that getting Liz to help him was the right idea. They would have something in common.

On the other side of James, Tony was splitting his attention between the octagon and Pepper. It was almost comical to watch them behave like teenagers newly in love. She really hoped they could agree on a reasonable balance between heroics and home-life this time around. Tony had confided his surprise at Pepper's idea of joining them in Detroit, and after a few rounds of cleverly deployed sarcasm between the two of them, she'd finally gotten more of the story out of him. Ulrika had resolved then and there that whenever missions demanded aerial heavy hitters, she'd make a point of asking for Jim's assistance again and let Tony off the hook.

* * * * *

James was having the time of his post-Winter Soldier life. He wasn't at the center of anyone's attention, he wasn't expected to do anything, he was even expected to **not** work on his issues while here. He wasn't sneaking in a few moments of enjoyment between work, he was actually expected to relax and enjoy himself. For one night he could be nothing other than a perfectly average spectator in a crowd of sports enthusiasts. Despite the crowd and the noise, which admittedly did put him somewhat on edge, it was some of the best entertainment he'd had since coming out of cryo in Wakanda. He was slowly beginning to hope this wouldn't be a one-time occurrence.

Beside him, Rigger was enjoying herself as well, even if she was considerably less interested in the fighting than he was. Fan of the sport or not, beer and good company worked for most people. He was still amazed that anyone would consider him good company, but the past few days had been proof enough that she wasn't pretending. Awkward flashbacks aside, they'd enjoyed themselves. And each other. A lot. Following the direction of Rigger's gaze past himself, he turned his head and looked at Stark and Potts, who had naturally gone for fancier and more expensive beverages and didn't look in his and Rigger's direction for a single second. He and his fellow soldier shared a grin. Hard to believe their two companions were, in fact, older than them; at least in terms of lived years.

James turned his attention back to the cage fighting. It would have been an illegal sport back in his day. It still was in some countries, Stark had told him. The fight went the full three rounds and he tried to guess what the judges would score it to. In principle it wasn't too different from the boxing he had once known, just with a far greater variety of styles and techniques available to the fighters, making it harder for them to read and predict their opponents. He was impressed with the level of skill on display here, though he could have taken down all of them without too much effort. Given his circumstances and experience the comparison probably wasn't fair.

Then the second fighter Liz had in the game was up. The fighters were introduced. Rafael Silva was gangly in the way one would expect from a teenager. A few more years of pro-level training and he'd probably bulk up by a weight class or two. Where Iskakov's hair had been buzzed completely short, Silva's long black hair had been braided into what, Rigger had informed him, was called cornrows. It was apparently fairly common for fighters to manage their hair like that. It made sense; it kept it in check. He briefly tried to imagine his own hair pulled into braids like that, but quickly dismissed the notion. He'd look ridiculous.

He watched as Liz touched foreheads with Silva and said something to him. He only managed to lip-read the latter half of it, because he didn't think to expect anything other than English or Russian. He should have. He'd been told she spoke several languages; naturally she'd be speaking Spanish to the Mexican fighter. Clapping the kid on the shoulders, she sent him onwards to the officials for the last pre-fight check before entering the octagon. Liz was apparently the type of coach to be with their fighter all the way. And the strange little pre-fight headbutt she did with both of the kids looked ridiculous, since she was so much shorter than them, but clearly it meant something. Rituals. Everyone had them.

It turned out to be a far more even match than the earlier one, where some poor Michigander had suffered a bloody defeat in his pro-debut against Iskakov's impressive form. Despite obviously having less experience than his opponent, Silva showed excellent form and after the first round, James wasn't actually sure how he would score it. Probably the round should go to the local hero, Ellis, for simply having a much greater output in strikes and therefore also landing more significant ones.

Now that James was prepared for lip-reading Spanish, he had an easy time deciphering what Liz was saying to Silva between rounds, when he could catch a glimpse of her. He could see the kid's back straightening as she told him to use specific things they'd trained. James could tell she held Silva's gaze while coaching him. They might be down one round, but her peptalk seemed to bring some fire back into the kid. Much needed fire, too, and it worked. When the local tried to catch Silva in a clinch about halfway into the second round, he spun and landed an elbow right on Ellis' nose, breaking it and staggering him. Not enough to say goodnight, but enough to put him on the defensive for the remainder of the round.

Coming into the third round, Silva was looking exhausted, and the cutman had managed to stop the bleeding from Ellis' broken nose. It didn't look fantastic for the debuting young Mexican. He fought intelligently, but he simply couldn't match Ellis' number of strikes. Though Silva acquitted himself well he had to eat a loss. Another couple of years and he'd have real knock-out power in those hands. James almost had an urge to offer his help. It pulled at him like home.

* * * * *

This was definitely the last time she agreed to something like this. Rafi needed her support after the loss, but being up for her own scheduled fight in not that long, Liz had to focus on getting herself ready. She hated the feeling of letting him down. He'd done well; really well, actually, and she'd told him as much, but he would probably need to hear it at least ten more times before it sank in. She would not be going into her bout with the right mindset like this. She could choose between still focusing on Rafi and helping him, or she could put him out of her mind and feel guilty for it. No good options. She found a quiet corner to just get a few minutes of meditation in. With so little time to prepare, focus was essential.

When she opened her eyes again, Maher was crouching before her, a knowing look in his eyes. He didn't need to speak neither English nor Spanish to have picked up on Rafi's reaction to the loss. Maher's gravelly voice alone had a grounding effect on her as he spoke: “Come. Temir will keep you busy on the mats, so you can focus.” He wasn't her coach – she didn't really have a coach with her for this on such short notice. Apparently, he had taken it upon himself to remedy that. “Come,” he insisted again. “Seeing you warm up for your fight will help the boy forget his loss and start learning from it instead.”

Liz sent him a grateful smile and got up. Letting go of her sense of responsibility to Rafi was easier if someone else took charge. The experienced Dagestani knew that, and she had never been more thankful for knowing the language that allowed them to work together.

It worked wonders. When her bout was up next, she was as ready as she was ever going to be with having had so few days to prepare.

* * * * *

The bouts on the main card drew much more cheering from the crowd. Second on the main card was the only bout of the evening with female fighters. It was coming up next, and James had no idea what to expect.

The home crowd cheered for the local fighter, whose walk-out song was apparently something of a sing-along hit James didn't know. She took the time to greet people in the audience on her way to the octagon. Joyce Harrington pretty much owned the room. James hoped for Rigger's friend that she wasn't too dependent on having the crowd's support, 'cause she wouldn't find much of that here.

He didn't pay close attention to Harrington's entrance. His interest lay with the woman, whom Rigger said had already signed on to help – if she still thought she could after having met him. Brutal sounding music started playing. Definitely in the genre Rigger had told him was called heavy metal, and which this Liz had a preference for. Liz started her walk-out at the same time as the unexpectedly pretty vocals sounded from the speakers.

> Welcome to my kingdom of madness  
> You're just in time for the show  
> Welcome to my world of darkness  
> A place where unreal becomes real.

The woman's voice took on a distorted sneer as the song continued.

> Come drink my blood face the demon in me  
> Come taste the wine of my sins
> 
> Out of control  
>  Without any fear of facing the madman  
>  Out of control  
>  Defying the Gods of Hell  
>  You are out of control

When James caught a glimpse of her face, he could tell she was singing along. Or at least mouthing the words. If the feel of the song was anything to go by, she wouldn't shy away from anything; least of all him; a literal madman at times.

> Can't find a shelter in Hellspace  
> Under my black wings of doom  
> The wind in the wasteland is howling  
> It's the wailing of ghosts of the past
> 
> Swim 'cross the ocean of pleasure and pain  
>  Into my fatal embrace (Battle Beast, Out of Control)

He supposed the violent imagery was fitting for a fighting tournament, where the fighters got fairly bloodied-up. She shed the hoodie and t-shirt; the same she'd been wearing earlier, while cornering for the two young fighters. If he had thought Rigger was well-trained with nice muscle definition, she had nothing on this Liz, not that that was what stole most of his attention. Her skin looked darker than it should, because she was covered in tattoos. Sure, many of the fighters had tattoos, but this was the most extensive he'd ever seen.

While the officials checked her over, she was still bouncing slightly in tune with the song and mouthing the words of the refrain. The mouthpiece was a blood red color that made her look like she'd taken a bite out of someone. As the official waved her into the octagon James could see the look in her eyes change from one of focused patience to that of a bloodthirsty predator, complete with maniacal grin. The song lyrics “wake the demon in me” seemed very apt. Clearly she had cultivated a persona for the octagon. Whether it was for show or intimidation, he couldn't say.

The announcer introduced the fighters and their stats – next to him Rigger snorted at the butchered pronunciation of Elizabeth Overgaard. Harrington had 4 inches on Liz in height and a 5-inch reach advantage, though they both weighed in at 115 lbs. The contrast was striking; Harrington was long limbed and wiry. Liz was built like a brick house. He understood why Stark had said, she was built like a super soldier; except short. At 5'2” weighing the same as her taller opponent, she had bulk strength that she would have to rely on.

* * * * *

Tony looked on with interest; interest surprisingly shared by Pepper, who would normally shy away from all violence. She really **was** taking an interest in the woman, who would likely be living in the Compound for an unknown length of time. At his other side, Barnes was also watching the fighters. The man was focused solely on Liz, taking nothing else in, while the fighters were waiting for the crews to vacate the octagon. His stare was so intense that Tony fully expected Liz to be able to feel it on the back of her neck and turn to look their way. She didn't.

The women touched gloves and sank into their fighting stances. Harrington was bouncing, full of energy. Liz was stone cold, calmly stalking the other fighter as they circled each other. Tony would have expected nothing else from her. Despite not having worked much with her, she seemed the type to never lose her cool. Harrington feinted, Liz dodged the jab easily. In fact, she seemed to dodge or check everything the taller woman threw at her. She didn't take the offensive, though.

“What's she waiting for?” Tony asked no one in particular, not taking his eyes off the fighters.

Unexpectedly, Barnes answered: “Getting a feel for the range. Rigger said she hadn't had much time to prepare for this fight. I'm guessing she just needs to figure out, where and how Harrington is dangerous.”

Rigger, having obviously heard what they were saying, joined in: “Yep, sounds about right. She's not usually a counter-striker. Likes the initiative. My guess is, as soon as Liz has her figured out, she'll lay into her. Or lay her out, more like.”

“Well, she'll want to do something, 'cause so far she's not winning on points if it goes to the judges,” Barnes commented.

“It won't.” Rigger stated with confidence.

Before Tony could ask why she was so certain of that, Liz stepped around to the outside of Harrington's jab, quicker than should have been possible, and landed two quick hits to Harrington's body. Though surprised, the woman quickly recovered and twisted away from Liz, who landed a hard kick to her main leg. Harrington went down. Liz followed, clearly ready to finish her opponent.

It wasn't going to be that easy, however. Liz had barely landed two punches, before Harrington had wrapped herself around her. Russian orders were called into the octagon and, though Tony had no idea what was said, it clearly had an effect. They rolled around – and over – a couple of times. Harrington was once again on her back, Liz was in full guard, but Harrington had her wrist. Long legs wrapped around Liz' neck and shoulder.

“Ouch,” Barnes grunted sympathetically beside him. “Nasty armbar. Winning off your back is a neat thing to do, though. Impressive move. If it works.”

It didn't. It wasn't over yet at all. Still with Harrington's legs wrapped around her neck and shoulder and hanging tightly onto her right wrist, Liz got to her feet, trying to let gravity peel off the skilled grappler. Tony had no idea how she did it. Obviously her free left hand must have found purchase on something, and then she straightened up, lifting Harrington over her shoulder and throwing her to the mat, where she landed with a painful smack. He wasn't used to seeing that kind of brute strength in women. He eyed Pepper, remembering the devastation of a few years ago. He knew she did, too. Her eyebrows were raised, though Tony tell whether it was with concern or admiration.

“Whoah!” Barnes cheered, while Rigger laughed and applauded.

Liz remained on her feet and stepped back, giving her opponent space, clearly not feeling like wrestling immediately again. Harrington rose as well, looking slightly dazed after being dropped for the second time in a round. Both women were breathing hard.

* * * * *

When the round ended and they went to their corners, Harrington's torso was looking red and painful; only going after Liz' head, had opened her up for numerous bodyshots. Breathing had to be very uncomfortable for her right now. Liz' right shoulder needed icing. After that armbar, James couldn't blame her. That had looked agonizing.

Most of the instructions he could see the wrestling coach give her was on escaping submission attempts. The older man ruffled her short hair affectionately, and she straightened up and squared her shoulders, muscles and tattoos rippling.

Rigger leaned in and muttered: “See why Tony keeps saying she reminds him of Captain Rogers?”

James sent her a grin. “Yep. How'd she get like that anyway?”

She looked like he'd asked the dumbest question in the world. “Training, of course. No serum, if that's what you meant. Just training. And don't ever suggest anything else to her. She'll make you suffer for it.”

Liz grinned maniacally as she went into the second round. The fighters touched gloves and they were at it again. Harrington's corner had evidently also done a good job of observing the first round. Harrington threw bodyshots now, and she used her elbows to protect against Liz'. Good work. James approved, even if he was still rooting for Liz.

Liz might be short, but she was fast. She did have to eat a few of Harrington's left hooks – heavy and accurate – but in return she kept landing leg kicks, and soon enough Harrington had slowed down significantly, sometimes even hesitating to even put weight on her left leg. He heard her corner shout for her to change levels. Not long after that, she initiated a clinch and eventually secured the takedown, bringing Liz with her to the canvas. James couldn't see exactly what happened from his angle. They grappled and rolled. Blood was smeared on the canvas. Harrington scrambled to her knees for a better grip in the blood-slick and managed to maneuver Liz into a guillotine hold. Liz was the one bleeding, he could see now, and it probably aided her in escaping the hold and turn the tables on Harrington.

The strength, as Liz pushed off the canvas and curled herself over and around Harrington, was unexpected. She was clearly looking for a rear naked choke. Almost getting it, too, if not for Harrington's quick thinking in throwing herself backwards to the mat and dislodging Liz. Rather than continuing the submission attempts, Liz scrambled to her feet and put distance between them, before Harrington could get in another submission attempt.

Liz' right eyebrow was bleeding profusely. Thankfully it didn't get into her eye. Facing off again, the fighters circled each other, both trying to avoid the bloodied patches of canvas. Liz feinted a leg kick, putting Harrington off-balance in the attempt to avoid it. Using that to her advantage, she spun backwards and landed a devastating back kick to Harrington's body. The woman went down. This time Liz followed, and James heard her roar as she bore down on her fallen opponent. The brutality of the ground and pound offered him a few sickening flashes of how he'd pummeled Steve on the helicarrier. A horn sounded and pulled him out of the memory as the referee pulled Liz off Harrington. Saved by the bell.

The third round would be a mess. The cutman managed to stop the bleeding from Liz' eyebrow, though by now the swelling around her eye had James guessing her orbital bone was probably fractured. Evidently she didn't care. Her body was visibly jittery with the adrenaline high. Harrington for her part was sitting, mouth open, and letting the other cutman stop the bleeding from her broken nose.

Both got in there at the referee's call. Harrington ignored Liz' outstretched glove, refusing the respectful greeting. Surprisingly, it made Liz stop short, straighten up and tilt her head a bit, seemingly just studying her opponent. James wished he could see her expression, but sitting behind her corner, she had her back turned. Puzzlement was evident in her stance, though. So, she clearly valued the decorum and sportsmanship of the whole thing. That alone spoke volumes of her character. Harrington kept looking angry. Liz shrugged, rolled her shoulders, and sank into her ready stance, all signs of adrenaline jitters now under strict control.

Before Harrington could take the offense, Liz exploded into action. After all that wrestling, James had no idea, where she got the energy from to launch such a burst of activity. A leg kick to put Harrington off-balance, and following up with a high kick that landed hard on the side of Harrington's head. The woman didn't go down; instead struck and landed a few more punches. She was extremely tough, he had to give her that.

Tough or not, she was dazed enough to not keep her hands up properly. Liz saw that, and James saw her load up a mile away, before she landed a right hook that echoed in the entire arena.

* * * * *

Liz didn't bother following Joyce to the mat this time. She wouldn't be getting up without help. The way her body had just gone slack, milliseconds after the hit landed, spoke volumes. Liz' eyebrow was bleeding again, and her shattered orbital bone didn't feel too happy about life, but it was a win. Not her most impressive ever, but decent enough, considering her lack of focused preparation for it.

Maher took her elbow and guided her to the stool in their corner, putting ice on her abused right shoulder, while the cutman took another look at her eyebrow. She was grateful to the old Dagestani. Joyce was a surprisingly good wrestler, and without Maher's corner work, Liz might not have successfully held her own against her.

Finally, Joyce was awake and back on her feet again, and they moved to stand on either side of the ref.

“Ladies and gentlemen! At 21 seconds into the third round, referee Mike Chilton has called a stop to the contest, declaring the winner, due toooo KNOCK OUUUT: Elizabeth Ooooooovergaaaaaard!”

The announcers never failed to amuse her, and she let that fuel her smile, as the referee raised her hand. The crowd boo'ed and definitely wasn't happy that their hero didn't win. Too bad. That's the nature of combat sports. Sometimes you get beat up.

She was handed off for the octagon interview. She needed to think of something reasonably amicable to say to a crowd, who hadn't wanted her to win.

“Liz, congratulations on an impressive win. You took this fight on very short notice. Did you expect to win?”

She grinned at the commentator conducting the interview. Sometimes they were really good at helping make sucky interviews bearable. “Thank you. Honestly, if you ever go into a fight expecting to lose, then you **will** lose. If you don't believe you can win, you shouldn't take the fight at all. I took it on short notice, sure, but I've been hard at work training two other fighters for this day, so it's not like I've been lazing about for the last six months.”

“It was a pretty close match, both of you bleeding by the end. How happy are you with your performance?”

“My striking was on point, I'd say, but damn, I need to work on my wrestling some more. Only reason I made it out alive is because of my coach, Maher, who isn't even my coach, but who graciously offered to help me through this. I was not ready for Joyce to be that much of a badass on the canvas. I swear, she's gotta be half octopus, or something, 'cause once you're down, you've got her arms and legs just everywhere. And lemme tell ya, that woman hangs on tight! Do not engage unless you're okay with going without air for a bit.”

The interviewer laughed. “That's praise for your opponent right there. The crowd was not with you tonight, anything you wanna say to them?”

“Hah, yeah. I know. I get you,” she looked around and addressed the audience rather than the interviewer. “She's one of your own. You have her back. That's the way it's gotta be. Some places are crazier than others, but I would much rather come as a guest and be welcomed as warmly as I've been here, and then not have crowd support, when I enter the octagon, than fight in places where the home crowd can't even be bothered to cheer for their own. It's called loyalty, friends, you have it. That's a good thing! And in that spirit: Joyce fought one hell of a fight. She's only 25, I've got about a decade on her and a ton of experience to draw on. She'll still be super successful in the octagon, when I'm retired, so y'all are right to have her back. Keep that up and let's hear it for Joyce 'The People's Choice' Harrington!”

The crowd roared. She'd achieved what she wanted.

“Well thank you for putting on quite the show, Liz. And thank you for your service.”

That actually got her some genuine cheers from the crowd, as she waved, bowed respectfully to all corners of the room and headed for the showers. She never got used to the extreme reverence service members were met with in many places in the US. Even service members from other (allied) countries were shown the same kind of respect. So different from back home, but hey, if that was what it took to get a couple of cheers from this crowd, she'd take it. It improved the atmosphere in the arena immensely, and Liz was all for that.

* * * * *

Rigger had relayed that Liz would remain with her fighters and crew for the rest of the night for extensive debriefing and planning any future engagements, so James didn't get to meet her until she joined them at around 4 in the morning. She and Rigger went straight for a hug, speaking Danish as they did.

“Damn, Rikka, it's been too long.”

“It has. But you're the one who only shows up, when I've new toys or a mission for you. You're free to drop by any time,” Rigger countered with a crooked grin and winked at her. James easily understood them, as neither spoke with heavy dialects, but Tony, he saw, was listening in with poorly disguised curiosity.

“I know, I know. But when I take a coaching job it's for months at a time. Not just a few days of action. Even if it's always fun blowing things up with you.” Liz' voice was deep and pleasant, albeit really, really hoarse.

Rigger stuck out her tongue at Liz, and James tried to hide his laughter behind his beer. Liz looked to him, nodded politely, smiled at him and then spoke Russian, letting him know that she knew: “See how I bring out the best in her?”

“It's a rare gift, I'm sure,” was all he could think to reply, also in Russian. It had been a long day, around a lot of people, and he was getting really tired.

“Okay, enough with your displays of linguistic dominance, people,” Tony butted in, sounding more amused than annoyed. “Us mere mortals don't have the feathers for it.”

“No worries, hot rod, your position's not being threatened,” Rigger shot back in English. “How about a flight back East? There are bunks on board.”

“Ohh, I am liking the sound of that,” Liz stated. “And hi, Tony. It's been a while.” She circled behind James and held out a hand for the billionaire.

“A handshake? That's all I get?” He gasped and clutched at imaginary pearls. “Come here!” Then he pulled Liz in for a hug, which she returned. When they separated again Tony introduced Liz and Pepper.

They shook hands and Pepper offered a polite, friendly smile. “Tony tells me you helped him come to terms with some things a while back. He refuses to tell me what, but it must have meant a lot. I'm glad to finally meet you, Ms. Overgaard.”

“It's Liz, please.” James saw the considering look she gave both Pepper and Tony, before she spoke again. “I hope he's as good for you as you are for him.”

That clearly caught the otherwise perfectly composed Miss Potts off guard. “Thank you, Liz. I see what he was talking about. Call me Pepper. Please.”

Tony commanded their attention again. “I know you're already in the know. So this is James.” Stark clapped him on the shoulder. The left one. James wondered if he'd ever get used to people treating the artificial limb as just another part of him.

“Yeah,” Liz confirmed, holding his gaze, while shaking his hand. Her grip was firm, and her eyes were gray with just a hint of green. She seemed solid. Felt solid. Even if the right side of her face showed painful evidence to the contrary. That was definitely a fractured orbital. “I figure we'll be very well acquainted before long. Good to meet you, James.”

He nodded. “You too.” He didn't manage to find the energy to think of something more to say. Her eyes seemed somehow older than they should be, and the knowing look was accompanied by a gentle smile, before she turned to Rigger. “You mentioned bunks? Dibs on the one furthest away from everyone – unless you need me to fly the gray lady. No FUI's, please.” She eyed the beer glasses with exaggerated concern.

Rigger pointed at him. “He's flying. I co-pilot. I swear, letting him and Tony loose on her, was like seeing kids in a toy store.”

Liz laughed. “Sounds like me.”

Stark picked up the tab and led the way out of the bar. James held out the little bowl of complementary mints to Liz, who raised an eyebrow. He shrugged, bot wanting to put himself fully out there. “You sound like you could use one.”

“Well, you're not wrong.” She cleared her throat and took one. James placed the bowl back on the bar, just as Rigger grabbed both of them by their arms to walk them in the same direction Stark and Potts had gone.

It was a quiet flight home towards the sunrise.


	11. Determination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about the long delay. I've always been bad at writing final chapters. And since I'm planning a Part 5 to this series, things kept creeping into this chapter that didn't belong. So many revisions. Ugh. Anyway, now it's here, and I hope it'll give you temporary closure until I'm ready to begin posting the next part.

James hadn't seen Liz for a full 24 hours, when he, Rigger and Stark walked to the room, where Stark had stored all the files apprehended from the Siberian bunker. She had requested they meet her there. Friday had relayed Liz' message. None of them had caught sound nor sight of the cage fighter since she'd staggered through the door to the living quarters Stark had designated for her. The rooms next to his own, James had noted; definitely not a coincidence. And now they were meeting her in the room, where his entire history and the history of what Hydra had done to him was stored. He didn't much look forward to facing what had to be a sizable archive, but at the same time he had to appreciate how she'd gotten to work immediately. That kind of dedication seemed to be the common denominator for pretty much everyone he'd met in the Compound.

He hadn't yet found the nerve to go check out the files from start to finish. Stark had archived the lot digitally so Friday could search the documents, and James had had her dig out specific reports to clarify some memories. Well, truthfully, he hadn't even done **that**. The Soldier had done it, and that was likely for the best. That one seemed far better equipped to handle it than James felt, which didn't exactly serve to make him feel any better.

And here he was, about to confront his own paper trail. According to Stark it was massive. James was grateful Rigger was here. He could hardly believe how comfortable he had become with her so quickly, but there was something to be said about kindred spirits, he supposed. He hoped he would one day be as relaxed about his bionic arm as she seemed to be about her legs – bitter sarcasm about the causes and people's attitudes notwithstanding. He absentmindedly scratched at the seam, where flesh and metal bit at each other. The dull ache served to ground him.

Stark led the way and stepped through the door first. James and Rigger, who brought up the rear, nearly collided with him, as he stopped short just inside the room.

“What **have** you done to my conference room?” The outrage was clearly in jest, and though James didn't know what the room had looked like before, it was clear enough this wasn't it. While still business-like and utilitarian, there was nothing corporate about it.

Tables were lining three walls, including the one made up of panoramic windows, and on them cardboard boxes – archive boxes of a type he'd seen plenty of over the years – were sitting, some of them with lids askew, others not. Along the fourth wall stood unused furniture – a round table had been tipped, tabletop against said wall – and more archive boxes were stacked in front of it. They filed in and picked out chairs to sit down, facing Liz and the work area she'd established.

In the middle of the room, in the center of the horse shoe of tables, in a cloud of holograms, Liz stood with her back turned. James couldn't make out what they showed from this angle. The fighter herself was dressed not much different from what she'd worn in the cage two night earlier. Loose trunks reaching almost to her knees and a sports bra; all of it a dark purple. James had to force himself to not try and decipher all the little details in the extensive tattoo designs that seemed to cover her entire body. Some were recognizable motifs, animals, and others seemed to just be decorative patterns. He averted his eyes and looked around instead – not that it made him feel any better, given what he knew of the archive's contents.

Liz answered Stark's question: “I remodeled. Had Happy bring up the necessary tables and a set of holoprojectors. They make life so much easier, when I need Friday to help me sort through these things. Friday, blur them for now please?”

“Of course,” the AI responded.

With a gesture Liz sent the holographic images outwards. Screens embedded in the walls and windows, sections of which suddenly became opaque, flickered to life and showed whatever she'd been working on; blurred and unidentifiable as she'd requested of the resident AI.

She rounded on them. The right side of her face was purple, albeit not quite as dark as her clothes, James noted with wry humor. The hematoma was migrating south and though it was her orbital bone and eyebrow that took the damage, much of the bruising was now resting underneath her eye and would probably rest along her jawline given another week or two to succumb to gravity. James had a brief and fuzzy recollection of seeing his own face, similarly colored, in a mirror. It was gone again in a blink. The smile Liz greeted them with, was kept carefully asymmetric. Though her face was obviously hurting, her gaze was warm and alert as she met James' eyes.

“So,” Stark started again. “What's with all this?”

Liz shrugged and gestured between herself and James, maintaining her friendly smile and eye-contact. “Figured I might as well turn this into our work room.”

“All the boxes had been sorted,” Stark protested weakly from beside James.

The short woman frowned and finally looked away from him, instead focusing on Stark. “They still are. I just stacked them for storage rather than use. I picked out the ones we might need for now. If you need anything from those,” she gestured at the boxes along the fourth wall. “Your system's still in place. Just packed tighter. Don't worry about it.”

James looked at the boxes she apparently thought might be useful. They were lined up in chronological order, as evident from the labels. The way she'd placed them on the tables indicated series, though he couldn't discern why she'd divided them where she had. Nothing in the sparse Cyrillic lettering suggested anything.

He decided to speak up, feeling like the dumbest person in the room: “You haven't actually read all the contents since yesterday. Right?” He really hoped that wasn't the case.

She laughed. “'Course not. I leave the speed reading to the two geniuses there.” She waved dismissively at Stark and Rigger, who huffed indignantly.

“So, why'd you split them into those sections?” He pointed. He was beginning to develop some curiosity about her thought process, even if he still had to ignore that this was all about him.

“Because they smell different.”

James thought he'd heard wrong.

“Excuse me, what?” Stark asked. Apparently James wasn't the only one.

“They smell different,” Liz repeated. “Cardboard picks up smells from its surroundings. The sections are to indicate the timeline for when the archive, and presumably it's subject matter, was moved to a different facility. You probably know that there's nothing in the papers about the locations of any of this, not that I've found yet anyway. Probably a safety measure.” She shrugged. “But since connecting events to the right locations can mean a great deal in terms of memory and trauma recovery, I felt it was necessary to have something to go on. So I used my nose. I won't guarantee complete accuracy, obviously, but this should at least give us something to start with.”

Stark looked genuinely offended. “Why didn't I think of that?”

Liz shrugged, seemingly oblivious to Stark's attempts at humor – or just determined to ignore it. “Because most people aren't really used to using all of their senses. Now, if you don't mind, I believe we're here to discuss James and not you.”

Stark raised his hands in surrender and grinned.

“I need a few things established. And I need to know what you're comfortable with.” She was speaking directly to James now.

He swallowed thickly. This was what he had been dreading. Probably. “Uh, okay?” Comfortable was not really a state he associated with anything to do with his history.

“You've lost muscle mass,” was not what James had expected to hear from her. She sounded slightly disapproving. Considering her way of life, perhaps it wasn't too surprising. “I assume you've simply been taking it easy. How do you feel about getting back to training?” He was about to tell her it would be fine with him, but she held up a hand. “I want you to really think about it. Training will draw on your muscle memory – draw it out – and while I plan to use that to help you, I can pretty much guarantee that it will also bring out some very uncomfortable things for you, given how many skills – especially close combat skills – you acquired during your, hmm let's call it indentured servitude. So don't rush your decision. Take your time, do yourself the favor of actually thinking about it.” She paused briefly and studied him for a bit. “If you need me to make it an order, I can do that.”

He shook his head, already feeling out of his depth, but appreciating that she seemed to take his well-being seriously. More seriously than he did, though that didn't really say much. Taking the time to think as ordered, he asked instead: “How can you tell?”

“Friday? The last five years please?”

The wall screens on the right cleared up and showed what she'd been sorting through. Pictures rather than data. Pictures of him. So many pictures. His discomfort grew exponentially; especially about those that were from surveillance from D.C. There were some from Bucharest as well. And some, though not many, from Berlin, though. Zemo's planned power outage had killed a lot of surveillance. And there were some of the status photos from Wakanda that Shuri had sent along with him in his medical files. The newest were from the Compound. His eyes were drawn in morbid fascination to the pictures from the workshop, when the Soldier had allowed Stark to examine the arm. Seeing his own naked back was strange – for lack of a better term. Absently he scratched his back, where the photo showed a scar he didn't recall the origin of.

Liz cleared her throat and he looked at her again. The warmth in her eyes hadn't diminished, and her left eyebrow was raised as if asking if he was still following. He twitched the corners of his mouth; he would have smiled but couldn't. It was enough and she continued: “You maintained your bulk while in Romania, but since Wakanda your focus has understandably been elsewhere. I'd like to return some of your focus to your physical condition as well.”

He nodded slowly, leaning back in the uncomfortable office chair. It made sense. Especially what she said about muscle memory. He remembered clearly enough what had happened that first time he and Rigger had been intimate. He wondered if she'd told Liz about it, but he really didn't want to ask; wasn't sure he really wanted to know either.

“I'm okay with training.” His thoughts had percolated enough for him to decide. “Like you said: it might end up making me uhhhh, periodically not okay, but I see your point about muscle memory. Makes sense. I'm in.”

She met his eyes again. He felt utterly naked under her searching gaze; not the sexy kind, but also not in a way that made him want to squirm. It felt surprisingly acceptable for this woman to know about him and his past. Like with Rigger, but in a completely different way.

Her smile was small – tiny even – and felt just for him alone. “Good. And don't worry. We'll evaluate as we go. See what brings out good and bad things and adjust your training plans accordingly. There'll be bumps along the road, obviously, but we want to avoid outright setbacks.”

“Sounds like you've decided to take this on?” It was Stark asking the question. The hopefulness in his tone was unmistakable. James was still amazed his well-being even mattered to the man.

“Of course.” Liz looked surprised. “It **is** what I do. Didn't Rikka tell you?” Their silence was apparently answer enough. “Really, Rikka...”

Rigger shrugged. “I've told them you work with people. That you fixed my head, when I wasn't about to let anyone else get close.”

Liz laughed. “That's all?”

“Come on,” the combat engineer defended herself. “It's not like I actually have any real idea what you do, besides coaching fighters. Me and people, you know. I don't get half of it anyway.”

A soft snort was all Rigger got for her defensiveness. “You're not nearly as bad with people as you make yourself out to be. And you know it.”

James caught Rigger's less than surreptitious glance at him. So did Liz, judging from her knowing smirk. Yeah, she knew.

“Alright. First order of business was the training.” Apparently Liz had decided not to pursue the topic of Rigger's people skills any further. “And since no one here has decided to actually inform James of anything pertinent about me, I figure I should.”

He grinned. “Well, I do know you're a cage fighter. Seems pretty pertinent.”

She rolled her eyes in response, and grabbed a chair of her own and sat down backwards on it, resting her arms on the back of it. “Yeah, but more than that, I coach fighters. The pros pay me, of course, but since I'm always on call for Rikka's team, I'm also on a steady salary for that, so I have the freedom to do a lot of coaching that doesn't pay much or at all. So, I often chose to tour between gyms, where you find so-called 'troubled youths'.” She made air quotes with her fingers. “A more accurate term would be abused and traumatized kids. Many of them end up in street crime, gangs and the like, and they gravitate towards combat sports as well.”

James remembered vaguely how the boxing gyms he'd trained at, had had a steady clientèle of well-dressed Italians in the audience, and how some fighters had been recruited as muscle for whatever shady business they had going on. Everyone knew what the likes of “Lucky” Luciano were really doing, so he had declined all offers he got. Ironic, considering the kind of organization he'd ended up being the muscle for. He settled on just saying: “Yeah, it was like that in the 30s as well.”

Liz smiled. “Of course. Humans haven't changed. And if I go where these kids are, there's a chance I can set them on better paths. Training traumatized kids required me to learn a lot about trauma and mental illnesses. None of what I've learned is certified, I just seek out knowledge, when I feel I need it. And believe me I needed it for this.” She nodded at Rigger, who also nodded to confirm.

“Didn't exactly make it easy for you either,” she admitted apologetically.

Liz shrugged. “It worked. And when she hired me on to her team as the independent contractor I am, the Danish DoD demanded that I also be on call for the military. For whatever I can help them with.”

It wasn't hard to imagine that, but questions presented themselves. “Wait, hold up. Independent contractor? You're not actually military?”

“These days, not officially,” she answered with a laugh. “After my year of mandatory service, I did enlist but not for any service that required deployment. I wanted to be a pro cage fighter and coach, so I signed on to train recruits in hand-to-hand, which allowed me to also train civilians on my free time. It also required me to keep up with some weapons training, of course. Not that I really needed that, since I've been fooling around with Rikka's inventions since we were kids.” She punctuated with a grin. “After my contract was up, I had nothing further to do with the military until after Rikka's recovery, when she got the go-ahead to establish her specialized team as Denmark's response to the weird new threats of this era. I didn't see real deployment and combat until about five years ago, and then only as an independent contractor, not as an actual service member. I'm doing things all backwards, I know.”

It was a lot to take in, and they still hadn't moved on beyond the first order of business. “Well, I was drafted at 25. Before then I'd only had to deal with shady folk trying to rope boxers into being muscle for the mob.”

“Wait, bloody 'ell, wait. The mob?” Rigger sounded incredulous. “Why did I not make this connection? Brooklyn, 30s, La Cosa Nostra!” Rigger looked at Liz, who didn't quite seem to follow. “You know, Lucky Luciano, Lansky, Siegel... bloody 'ell. You were there...”

“Siegel! That's the one,” James could suddenly put a face to the name. “Bugsy Siegel. He sometimes showed up on recruitment visits in the gym. Only early days, though, if I recall. Later on, he just sent his people. Why? Is this special to you?”

Rigger shook her head and just looked a bit awestruck. “D'you have any idea, how many movies have been made about or inspired by those events?”

“Uhhh, no?” He really didn't. “Something I should look into?”

Liz looked sidelined. Rigger looked at Tony. “Tony, I think you're better suited t-”

“To arrange movie nights?” Stark took over, completing Rigger's sentence. “You bet. That is, if you're interested. Barnes? Liz?”

James wasn't sure he'd be able to focus long enough to actually follow a movie. “I dunno. Movies were always more Steve's thing. We did watch a few in Wakanda, but I guess it might be fun to see what modern movies make of the times I remember.”

“I'm in,” Liz declared. “Movie night is good. And mandatory relaxation may be necessary, judging from how tired you've managed to look this early in the day.” She sent him a pointed glance.

“Hah! He's looking comparatively well rested this week,” Stark commented good-naturedly. James couldn't argue.

“My point stands, then. Let's move on, shall we? Next up I'd like to know what BARF does. As in a demonstration.” Liz pulled things back on track.

He must have grimaced, because once again she sent him a reassuring smile. “Don't worry, I don't need to see the memories you work with there. We're only gonna talk about them. I just need to know how it works and specifically how it affects you, so I can take that into account, when I plan your work.” She grinned at Stark. “And I'm also just curious about the tech and would like to test it myself.”

“Absolutely can do,” Stark confirmed. “Just let me know, when you'd like a demo. As for how he's affected,” the engineer pointed at James, “I might have seen some things he's not even aware of.”

“I see.” She nodded pensively and rubbed her chin, wincing slightly, when her hand wandered too far up her right cheek.

“It's true,” James confirmed. “I've sometimes been fairly out of it after a session.” He took a deep breath before he continued. “I can't say I'm comfortable letting anyone see those memories, but there are some sessions, where I'll need someone to be there afterwards. May as well be you.”

Once again he was the target of that unnervingly sharp-eyed gaze. “Your reasoning is sound,” she started, sounding hesitant, “but in order for this whole thing to work, I need you to really **feel** you can trust me, and invading your privacy from the beginning won't be conducive to that. You're right it would be practical, but it'd also be counterproductive unless you're actually okay with it. So no rash decisions on this either. I know you're eager to get started, but you just can't rush these things.”

It felt strange, for this woman, whom he'd met for the first time less than two days ago, to put in so much of an effort to look after him. The people in Wakanda had all been welcoming enough, but their help hadn't felt as personal, nor as personally invested in him, as Liz' did. Well, besides Shuri, but James had a feeling, the young princess was the type to get personally invested in everyone along her way. She was just like that. And James was not used to being looked after. At all.

Liz was an unknown factor still. There was no doubt that she took it very seriously, when she accepted responsibility for another person's well-being. Her smiles were all kind and friendly, and though she seemed all business here and now, he was also willing to bet that there was a sense of humor in there. Otherwise he couldn't really imagine how she and Rigger had stuck together for most of their lives.

Most of all, he could tell very easily that he'd gain nothing from arguing with her. There was a steely determination in those eyes that was not to be trifled with. Not that her performance in the cage the other night left any doubts there, but it was more than just that. He found that he actually looked forward to getting to work with her. Her presence alone instilled a confidence in him that even Steve's ever hopeful attitude hadn't been able to. A confidence that might eventually develop into a plucky optimism worthy of Steve himself. He could hope.

* * * * *

Liz allowed James to just soak up the explanations and think it through. From behind him, Rikka sent her a self-assured smile. She'd known full well Liz couldn't say no to help one of the old Howlies. She also knew why; aside from it being the right thing to do. Neither James nor Tony had been told, though. Rikka always left it up to her to tell that part of her story. Realistically it would only be a matter of time before she told them; especially James.

Tony sat, partially engrossed in his tablet, sometimes pulling up holograms of a design, and clearly only paying the goings-on a fraction of his attention. That was fine with her, but she needed to be sure, so she had to address James with another decision he might need to make. There'd be plenty more of those, so he might as well get used to it, but she needed to make absolutely certain that he wasn't being hasty and foregoing to protect himself.

“Before I continue, there is this thing called confidentiality, so before we get into the issues of your mental health, James, I need to make sure that you're okay with these two grease monkeys being here for the conversation, and if not they will leave, no questions asked.”

Everything about Tony's body language confirmed for her that he'd be out that door the moment someone requested it. Infernal curiosity aside, the man did know a thing or two about painful things best kept to oneself. And he was evidently doing so much better than last Liz had seen him.

“Oh, uhhh I'm not really used to all that much privacy. It's okay.”

Typical. She wanted to roll her eyes but didn't. “Just because your privacy's been violated as a matter of course, doesn't make it okay for us to continue that tradition. You're allowed privacy. **Especially** with regards to this.” She caught his gaze and held it. That had seemed to slow him down earlier and halt his rash acceptance of anything mentioned.

James insisted. “No, really. They're okay. Stark knows a lot already. He's been really involved with everything. And it's okay for him to know. Improving BARF requires something to work with, and he's been... really good about it.” Liz didn't miss how Rikka's eyebrows twitched in surprise. As did Tony's. “They both have. I trust them both with this.”

“Alright, as long as you know that the choice is entirely yours. And just because they know some things, doesn't mean they have a right to know everything.”

He nodded, understanding evident in his eyes, and she could continue. “Last, but definitely not least,” she could finally get into the real meat of things. “In order to help you unify your personalities, I need to be able to talk to all of you.”

“All? Don't you just mean both?” James looked more puzzled than she had expected.

Apparently he hadn't yet realized, though from what Tony had passed on to her, it probably wouldn't be hard to get him to see. “No, I mean all. Friday, the rest of the images, please?”

The screens cleared and the photo gallery of James looked down on them from three walls now. She had been working with close-ups of his face and even his eyes. The man himself, though he cut an imposing figure standing up, immediately shrunk and began to fidget in his seat like a teenager waiting for an inevitable talking-to. She could easily see how he fought not to – and failed miserably.

“I'm sorry, James, I know this is really weird.” She got up and walked to the left side and pointed at the few pictures in existence of his pre-war self. Boxing tournaments. Unit photos from before he shipped out. “You might not be able to tell. People sometimes have a hard time looking at pictures of their own eyes, and so seeing details like these can be nearly impossible.”

She pointed up at the pictures of his face. “This is pre-war you. There's a lightness in your eyes, that is completely gone by the time we have this photo from your deployment in Italy. And it only gets more clear here with the film from the 107th after the return from Azzano and Krausberg.” It didn't escape her notice how he flinched slightly, when she spoke the latter name. It obviously reminded him of unpleasant things. Whether it was the name itself, or just the sound of something German, she couldn't say. They would find out soon enough.

She then pointed at the picture of him and Captain Rogers on the back of a truck and explained: “Your eyes speak volumes here. You were already dissociating, while putting on a brave face. It's not an uncommon reaction for soldiers in a warzone. It's a coping mechanism to handle the horrors they see, and you were already doing it to some degree before Krausberg.” He winced again. Rigger, still sitting slightly behind him, placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Liz hid her smile by turning slightly away, her friend's people skills were nowhere near as dreadful as she liked to claim.

“And after? Well, it's no surprise you needed to bury the happy and more sensitive soul that pre-war you had been. Every picture I've found of you with the Howling Commandos, even during downtime in London, shows me this hardened, melancholy man. The main identifiable emotion showing in your eyes is longing.”

Rikka perked up at that. James swallowed, looking nervous like he didn't want to ask a question, because he'd already guessed the answer. Knowing how he'd performed on tests, she assumed, he probably **had** figured it out. The man was nothing if not intelligent. “So what are you saying?”

Liz sat back down and swiveled the chair to face James again. “I'm saying that the personality who's currently fronting in you, James, was established in Italy of '43. The line between it and your pre-war self isn't very strong. Probably because you had the same people around you to at least maintain a connection to your original self. So you'll likely find it easier to drift between these two personalities and hopefully also to integrate them.” That was the very short explanation, but it was all she'd go over, while they had an audience. It should be enough to explain how he'd been able to draw out some of the old Bucky, during his time with Rikka, when everything else could be kept at a distance.

“And the Soldier?” His voice was more like a croak, and Liz wished she'd brought a bunch of mints to return the favor of the other night. His mouth probably felt parched right about now. Hers would have, had she been in his shoes.

“Well, he clearly evolved from the situation you found yourself in after capture.” She did not in any way wish to mention specifics, before she'd had a candid talk with him about his reactions and triggers. “He must necessarily be very different from the two others, which makes it all the more important that I am able to talk to all three of you. So my question is: do you, James, have a way to withdraw and let another personality front?”

“Uhhh front? You used the term before...” Liz had expected the question. He'd have had little to no chance of learning any modern terminology pertaining to mental health, much less the colloquialisms developed among people who lived with it.

“Yep,” she said, keeping her tone light so as not to alarm him. “What I think you're dealing with is called dissociative identity disorder, or D.I.D. for short. Fronting is the word some people with D.I.D. use for one personality being in control.”

“So... like in split personality? Steve did say something about that.” His tone was cautious, but no hints of panic bled through.

Her relief that he approached it with such bland acceptance was great, though she refrained from showing it. “Exactly like that. Our knowledge of the mind has grown exponentially since your day, so while we work on this, I'll probably end up using a lot of terms you won't be familiar with. Ask me about them, please. All of them. It's in both our best interests to get you as well acquainted with the tools at your disposal as we can.”

“Yeah, okay.” He acknowledged the instructions, looking kind of lost in thought if only for a few seconds. “So, DID?”

Good. Curiosity and willingness to learn was a major good sign, and this **was** going to be a bit of a terrifying info-dump, even with her best efforts at making it manageable. “Right. The human brain has many options for developing coping mechanisms – that's the things we think and do in order to handle stuff that's difficult.”

“Like a gangplank. Rather than having to climb the side of the ship?”

She halted, not having expected him to offer analogies. But this was good, definitely good. Not the image she would have chosen – very 40s, and a bit odd – but she could work with his. “That's a pretty good image, yeah. So our coping mechanisms, like a gangplank, are an attempt to avoid something really difficult, but they're not always perfect. At high tide, the gangplank may have a pretty steep incline. It can have loose cleats. It can be iced over.”

He nodded before he spoke. “And even with the same ship, sometimes you don't need it, you can just jump aboard. At others – like when you have your hands full – you do need it.”

“Exactly!” Now he'd managed to outright impress her. And a suspicion was beginning to form. “Say, you don't happen to have worked on the docks at some point in your youth?”

“Was I that obvious?” He grinned. “Sorry, I should let you go on.”

“No apology needed. The analogy was perfect.” And deflecting with light-hearted banter was probably something she needed to watch out for. She needed to cut this short. While he was clearly motivated to keep going, the fidgeting hadn't stopped. She would try to keep things general for the rest of the talk.

“Nobody really knows why some people develop one coping mechanism rather than another. There's probably some amount of genetic pre-disposition, but it's a complex thing. DID is an extreme form of compartmentalization, I suppose. A way for the mind to protect itself from something. It doesn't just pretend something never happened, it literally shuts down the entire personality – or identity – and creates a new one, whose job it then is to deal with the difficult situation.”

“Sounds like a pretty complicated gangplank,” James commented with a frown.

“You bet,” Liz readily agreed. This would be where any analogy broke down. “The problem with DID isn't so much that it's a self-destructive coping mechanism. It's that the new personality ends up living life and becoming just as valid an identity as the old one. This means we can't just get rid of the difficult situation, and things will sort themselves out. The new identity will still be there, because it is just as real and alive as the original one.”

“And you're saying I have three of them rather than two.”

She nodded. “I'm not a psychologist, or any other kind of therapist, but I know people. I read people, and I do it well. I'm dead certain there are three people in you, and we need to take all three into account if we are to make this work, because they're all real and they need to be heard.”

James hunched forward, elbows on his knees, to look down at the floor. “So this is a known thing... Other people have experienced something similar.” His voice sounded a little reedy.

“Absolutely.” This would probably be a good time to let him know his case wasn't the worst ever. “I have a book about a woman, who developed, I think it was sixteen, different personalities, many of them during her childhood.”

“Whoah!” He looked up, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, the disbelief evident. She felt his scrutiny, obviously looking for deception and finding none. “You're not kidding...”

“Nope.” She shook her head to emphasize it. “You can borrow it, if you're interested.”

James shook his head slightly. “Not yet. Maybe later. Right now, I'm plenty to think about. I think. And you think all three of us, uhhh me, can be merged?”

“I won't make promises, I can't keep. But I hear tell,” she looked pointedly at Rikka, “that the personality, who's fronting right now, manages to be the kind of charming and flirtatious that should reasonably belong with your pre-war personality. So I'd say you're already breaking down those walls on your own.”

“And you need to talk to all of them. Us. Me. What do I even say?” He gestured at himself, looking lost, but laughing all the same.

She laughed with him. “You call your selves whatever you find the most apt. It's not for me to define for you. But yeah, I do need to talk to all of you, so do you have a way to withdraw and let another front?”

“I can't find Bucky,” James admitted readily. “Only in those glimpses, when he seems to sometimes influence me. But I do know of two ways to draw out the Soldier,” he bowed his head again, looking at the floor. He slid his right hand into the palm of the left, almost but not quite wringing them. “I can work myself to exhaustion, have a lot of nightmares, and then he'll likely be the one to wake up after the next time I sleep. Might take me a week or so to bring him out.”

James looked up at her. She couldn't tell whether his look of desperation had to do with this option or the as yet unspoken one.

“Sounds a bit unreliable,” she mused quietly, allowing her gaze to be slightly unfocused. Letting him choose the level of the next disclosure would be paramount. “And not altogether healthy, considering we actually want you to sleep well. And the other method? Do I even want to know?”

He took a deep, shaky breath, and she steeled herself for how bad the other idea would be. Yeah, it would be bad.

“Friday?” Liz had not expected him to address the AI instead. “You've compiled the list of the nine words from my memories. Let her have it.”

Friday's voice sounded deeply concerned and apprehensive, when she started: “Sergeant Barnes, I really don't belie-” It dawned on Liz what James was offering her.

“No way!” The vehemence in her protest surprised even herself, as she cut off the AI and startled James into looking up at her, his hands now parted, fingers still twitching as if caught in a forbidden act. It had taken her a few seconds to figure out what he was talking about. The control words hadn't been her main concern at all. The mere thought of using them, of holding that kind of power over another person, just to be able to talk to the Soldier, made her sick to her stomach, and she didn't bother hiding the nauseous tone, when she told him: “I'm here to help you, not torture you.”

She walked over and crouched down in front of him, placing herself in his line of sight – and at a lower level – though not close enough to be between his knees. Once again she spied Rigger's supportive hand on his shoulder.

“James,” Liz spoke softly. He didn't look at her, but that was fine, she didn't need him to. “Torture can never, ever be a part of recovery. Don't get me wrong, many parts of recovery will be hard and deeply unpleasant; maybe torturous, because you'll have to face the things that messed you up. But my job in this mess is to be by your side to help you as you face them, not to represent the things that messed you up to begin with.”

He looked at her, then, still ducking his head as if ashamed. His eyes were cautious and his lips drawn tight. She remained crouching on the floor before him, and held up her right hand, palm up.

“I'll make you a deal. If I haven't found a non-torturous and otherwise entirely ethical way of fully bringing out at least one of the others within the next four weeks, then I'll buy us tickets for the next UFC event immediately thereafter.”

He looked at her; really scrutinized her. When he spoke, the hint of a smirk was forming at the corner of his mouth. “So, either we achieve something worth celebrating or we go enjoy a consolation prize?”

“That's the idea,” she confirmed as gently as she could.

He grabbed her hand and shook it, like she'd expected him to. “I'll take that deal.” Finally there was a slight optimistic glint in his eyes.

She'd buy the tickets regardless, of course. Whether it would be a consolation prize or a celebration, didn't matter. He'd obviously enjoyed the small event in Detroit, so such an outing was definitely happening again, whatever the occasion would have to be. And besides, she'd probably only need two weeks anyway.

When she shooed the three of them out of the room, she instructed James to meet her in the gym.

As she closed the door behind them and grabbed her tablet to make a few notes, a message from Tony pinged into her Inbox. Two tickets for the UFC event in five weeks – the lovable prat had obviously seen through her play and beat her to it – and an invitation to test out the BARF suite this afternoon.

She briefly considered which memory, she'd play around with, while having an audience, and decided on a fairly innocuous one. Tony was likely to demonstrate with the same memory he'd used at MIT, but with that man you could never be certain; always full of surprises. She wasn't sure whether James was interested in being there, when she got a crash course in the memory recovery and revision tech. She'd ask him later. First, she would meet him in the gym.

* * * * *

Several hours later Liz had put him through the paces in the gym and left him to shower and rest up. James was ravenous, however, so after he was somewhat presentable again he jotted down only the essentials in his journal for The Soldier to read. Details could come tonight, right now he just needed to be sure that his cynical and calculating alter ego would know that Liz was on their side – all of their sides. What she had said about putting the personalities together – unifying them – had been very much along the lines of what Dr. Owlahlie had suggested back in Wakanda, and the first attempt at which had been really strange and no particular success. He'd mentioned it to Liz, and she had promptly declared that she wanted to hear a lot more about it at a later date. And while she'd quietly observed him through the next pass he'd heard her mutter “good instincts”. James had been unable to determine whether she was referring to his lifting or to the early attempt at integrating with The Soldier.

Eventually the growls from his stomach were no longer the slightest bit placated by the protein drink, Liz had handed him after the work-out, and now they became too insistent for him to stay away from the kitchens any longer.

Fighting was the one thing all three of his personalities had in common, so that would be one of the corner stones in their unification strategy, Liz had told him. He hoped she would take into account the amount of food he'd need to put away, if he increased his activity level as much as she had indicated.

His stomach announced itself again, when he neared the doors to the common area. This time it was in response to the rich smell of a hot meal. The way the intensely focused pair of steel gray eyes looked up at him when he entered reminded him a lot of how Rigger's blue eyes had looked up at him a mere week ago. Christ, it had only been just over a week. The surety in their eyes, the way they both immediately focused on the new person in the room, evaluated, nodded almost imperceptibly and subsequently relaxed, it was almost funny how similar they were in spite of their obvious differences. The two of them having grown up together seemed all the more true, the more he observed of their behavior.

Liz was evidently still working. She sat at the dining table with the shiny new Stark-issued tablet and tapped away at it. A plate of food sat next to the tablet, half-eaten. She noticed how he'd stopped to observe, when she grabbed a pencil and sketched out something on a pad of paper, crossed something out, and drew something that to him might just as well have been hieroglyphics. Putting down the pencil in favor of the fork, she took a mouthful of whatever it was she'd conjured up. Then she pointed to the kitchen.

“Help yourself,” she told him with a grin.

James involuntarily inhaled the spicy smell again as he went as directed, making a beeline for the kitchen. His stomach growled in anticipation.

He saw her smirk, but continued his stride towards the source of the mouth-watering aroma.

“What are you laughing at?” He called to her over his shoulder, while grabbing a plate from one of the cupboards.

Her light chuckle evolved into laughter. “Just glad you like the smell of my cooking. If you didn't, the coming week would be hard on you.”

That answered one concern of his. The pot on the stove contained enough food for at least three days' dinner. And it was definitely protein-heavy. He turned to look at her again. “Ms. Overgaard...” he stopped, when she raised her eyebrow at him. Right, she'd told him to call her Liz several times already. “Sorry. Liz. The only commander, I ever called by their first name was Steve.”

Her smile never faltered. “That's fair. I'm not your commander, though. Even if I do get why it might feel a little like that right now.” She gestured at the dish she'd cooked. “It's not much. Just a simple, nutritious grub, absolutely worthy of the name. If I'm reading your medical file right, this should be enough for the both of us for a few days. Maybe four if I'm overestimating how fast you can accelerate your training intensity. Not very inspired, but a lot healthier than your take-out record.”

Right. She'd asked what they'd been subsisting on so far, and wondered aloud why they didn't make use of the perfectly serviceable and reasonably staffed kitchens in the compound. James hadn't been aware of it, and deferred the question to Stark, who had deflected by saying he never knew ahead of time what he would be in the mood for.

That was gonna change, as was evident by some of the notes he spied as he sat down across from her, ready to dig into his own generous helping. “Inspired or not,” he declared pleasantly. “The seasoning raises it several classes above regular grub.”

“Glad you approve. I'll be doing this kind of bulk cooking for the first week, and then I should have a reasonable idea of what you burn through.”

James nodded at her papers and, forgetting all manners, asked around a mouthful of food: “And then there'll be meal plans for the kitchens? Sorry.” He raised his hand to cover his mouth and laughed in slight embarrassment.

She laughed with him. The corners of her eyes crinkling and reminding him that in terms of years awake and in control of one's own head, both she and Rigger were older than him. And Steve.

James eyed the cage fighter's half-finished plate. That portion was definitely bigger than someone her size would normally consume. This time he swallowed before speaking. “You're gonna be training as well?”

“You bet.” She flashed him a toothy grin. “I'll never keep up with your enhanced physique, obviously, but we'll be training together, and I'm guessing within a month of two I'll be up to flyweight. Maybe bantam in two, if things get really crazy.”

That surprised him. “At your height?”

She shrugged. “I pack on muscle easily. Good genes, I guess. For that, anyway.”

He glanced at the papers and the tablet lying beside her plate. “So what kind of hell are you putting me through?”

Liz quickly wolfed down the rest of her meal, while still tapping at the tablet screen. Then she looked back up at him. “Okay, you eat. I talk.”

“I think I can manage that,” he said with a grin that she answered in kind.

“All right, I have the next three days planned out in detail, and I'll be able to plan further ahead the more I know about your process.”

He shoveled food into his mouth and she went over the details of what she planned to do with the coming few days. It would mostly be training, and him telling her about himself. That was the part he didn't much look forward to. Everything seemed to become that much more real, whenever he spoke it aloud. That was probably the point of doing so.

He realized she had even planned, which topics they'd be talking about when. He was puzzled and had to ask why that was important. While she did offer to explain to him the biology of stress, what adrenaline and cortisol does, how exercise and trauma each affect them, and why it's important for the body as well as the brain to manage those levels carefully, he declined her offer for now, already feeling slightly overwhelmed at just how many things needed to be taken into account. He opted to just trust her expertise, glad to have someone in his corner, who knew their stuff. If anything, when he got back to his journal, he might suggest the Soldier, who didn't have all that many pesky emotions to deal with, ask her about the science.

Not that he got away with no explanations at all. Liz seemed to have made several decisions already on what info she considered it important for him to know, 'cause it was by no means optional all of it.

By the time his belly was comfortably full, he also had a very detailed schedule for what he would be doing for the coming three days, as well as a slightly more loose one – soon to be adjusted – for the three days following that.

The overwhelming feeling of being out of his depth was slowly replaced by a cautious confidence that this would be good: It would work.

“You feelin' it so far?”

“Feeling what?” James instantly felt guilty for not having paid attention.

She looked surprised and then mirrored his own guilt. “Sorry. You give the impression of having adapted fairly well to this millenium. I'll be careful with the slang. Feeling can be used as synonymous for liking these days. So, you feelin' it? The plans, I mean?”

James didn't even have to think about it. “Definitely.” And then he decided to be as forthcoming with her as she'd encouraged. “A bit overwhelmed, to be honest, but I guess I should've expected that. But yeah, it feels right. Guess I'm feeling it,” he finished with a smirk.

“Great. I'll send the schedule to your tablet as well. Your first piece of homework is something you probably won't complete for a while yet, but it's important to get started. It's really simple and really hard.”

She was watching him like a hawk, as he took in her words and answered with a hesitant. “Okay...?”

“Say no or stop, when something no longer feels right.”

That was something he'd spent decades never doing. “I'm kinda out of practice...”

“Precisely,” she acknowledged. “And before I'll even consider pulling you through anything, where the line between merely uncomfortable and outright harmful will be negligible, you'll need to at least have started in on building this back up.”

James mulled it over for a bit. “That makes sense.”

“Glad you agree. It's also why I'm putting an immediate end to your BARF-sessions. You're not even so much as touching that for at least a week. I have a demonstration with Tony later today, though I might still push it to tomorrow. I want to have a handle on the present you, before we start fiddling around with your past. And there's no way you're doing those marathon sessions again. Christ...”

He nodded again. “That sounds... okay...” It sounded like he wouldn't be doing all he could to remember, to get better... to atone. But he wasn't in charge anymore. Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

“I'm just letting you know, what my thought process is. In the interest of transparency. Which brings me to another issue of transparency. Friday likes you.”

That was not where he had expected the conversation to go. “Uhh, what?”

“She respected your decision and despite her misgivings did actually do what you told her this morning; sent me a file with the nine words you referred to. Password protected and all.”

As she continued, James swallowed, dizzy from the quick change in subjects and not quite sure what Hydra's control words had to do with Friday liking him.

Liz waited until he was able to look her in the eye again. Then she continued with amusement coloring her tone: “Along with that file she also included an impressively creative list of consequences, she will ensure I suffer, should I ever abuse this trust you've placed in me.”

He sent her a dark look, though it was only half-hearted. He did remember what she'd said this morning. “Are you sure we won't need them? For when you need to talk to the Soldier, I mean?”

She nodded curtly, leaving no doubt as to her conviction. “Absolutely. And that's why I didn't open the file. You can still revoke that permission and Friday will delete them from my inbox, so I won't ever see them. Right, Fri?”

“Immediately, yes,” the AI responded very quickly. Almost too quickly. James got the distinct impression Friday would have already done so, if not for the fact that it was on his order the word list was currently **in** Liz' inbox.

“See? She's being all protective of you. Dunno what you did, Sergeant Barnes, but you charmed her good.”

“She looks after her maker,” he explained.

“Tony? Not sure how that has anything to do with your health.”

James looked at her, really studied her. He knew she and Stark had met before, but apparently she wasn't nearly as well-acquainted with their host as Rigger was. “He feels responsible. Guilty.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And how do you know that? The two of you still only use last names. Not exactly signaling a deep friendship here.”

He shook his head. He would never presume to call Stark his friend. “He told me. I had a really bad nightmare, and he was there to calm me down, and he just sort of said it. He was pretty exhausted himself. I'm not even sure he remembers, honestly. But he was being honest about it. I'm sure of **that**.”

Liz sighed. “I'm not surprised. Sounds like Tony. He behaved irresponsibly for years and now he's overcompensating.”

“I've noticed,” James agreed. That did line up pretty well with what he'd observed and read. It would also explain Steve's strange inability to really describe the man. Liz didn't seem to have those problems, though. “You think there's more to it than that, don't you?”

She smiled briefly. “I know so, but that's not for me to disclose to you without his permission. If you wanna know, you'll have to ask him yourself.”

He snorted softly. Like Stark would ever confide anything in him, when he wasn't half-delirious due to lack of sleep. “He wouldn't tell me.”

“So you're actually interested...”

It wasn't a question, and she was right. How could he not be curious about the man who had seemingly forgiven everything and had moved heaven and earth to help him, even after he'd been the reason for a lot of broken friendships? He just nodded.

Liz continued. “Start by calling him Tony. See where that takes you. You might be surprised.”

He nodded again and told her a simple “thank you.” Those were a couple of words he used all the time these days, and yet it never felt like enough.

“Anyway.” There was a mischievous glint in Liz' eyes, as she spoke. “I've got a BARF-demo with Tony in an hour. So in the meantime... you and Rikka, huh?”

James would have spluttered if she hadn't telegraphed the nature of the conversation so clearly. He was prepared for it. “Gonna warn me off of her?”

The very much unladylike snort erupting from her told him what she thought of that idea. “Pfft. She can take care of herself. None of my concern.” A wave of her hand dismissed the notion as utterly ridiculous. “You kids have fun. But if at any point **you** have trouble with something not feeling right and needing it to stop, just let me know if I need to warn her off of you.” He was about to protest, when she fixed him with a stern look. “I know it sounds stupid right now. The offer stands, should you need it further on. She's my friend, but **you** are my responsibility.”

It was slowly dawning on James exactly how much this powerhouse of a strawweight had signed up to do for him, solely at the request of two people who had known him for just over a week and just under four months, respectively.

Whatever he had done to deserve the effort was still lost on him. It was, however, becoming painfully clear to him that even though these were Steve's connections, his old friend had grossly underestimated their willingness to help; had gambled, lost, and hadn't been able to swallow his wounded pride long enough to re-connect. James resolved that the second his mental stability wouldn't be compromised by interacting with Steve, he'd get them all to talk to each other again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Liz is referring to is called Sybil. It's written by Flora Rheta Schreiber. In case any of you are interested.


End file.
